Revenge Au Trois
by Caz Dowse
Summary: Trent Boyette is back for revenge on the boys - and this time he's not alone...Rated T for language. Please don't judge by crappy title, okay! Final chapter up!
1. Chapter 1

**Revenge Áu Tróis**

**Please don't judge this story by its crappy title, okay? It is better than it sounds…um, hopefully.**

**I don't own South Park, or any of the dialogue that I "borrowed" from the Pre-School episode. The rest, however, is all mine.**

**Chapter 1**

Flames licked the bright blue sky above the small mountain town of South Park. The townspeople watched as another jet of water was aimed at the inferno, but privately they all knew the truth: there was no hope for South Park Elementary School. Everybody jumped at the sound of an explosion from inside the burning building.

"Look!" someone shouted.

The crowd turned to see a couple of paramedics wheeling a badly burned woman away from the school. There was a general murmuring and shaking of heads as the woman was gently lifted into the back of an ambulance.

"Poor Miss Claridge," a woman said, shaking her head. "Who'd want to do something like that to her?"

"Three guesses," a man standing next to her said, thumbing towards a teenage boy with an unruly crop of dirty blond hair being dragged towards a police car by a couple of officers.

"Trent Boyette?" the woman in the crowd said. "I didn't even know he was out."

"He got out a few days ago," the man replied. "But he just had to try and finish off his old pre-school teacher. Again." They watched as the tall, muscular Trent wrestled with the two cops trying to restrain him. One yelled into his radio for backup. "That's the third time he's tried to kill Miss Claridge," the man continued. "Some say he's got an obsession with her. All I know is, she'll never be safe while he's around. They should throw away the key."

There was a murmur of agreement in the crowd around him.

Another police car pulled up and a couple of officers got out and jumped on the struggling Trent. After a few minutes, and some surreptitious punches and kicks, they pulled him to his feet.

"No! It was them!" Trent shouted as he was hauled towards a panda.

The cops stopped and turned to look at where Trent was glaring. Behind them, just in front of the crowd, stood four anxious looking teenage boys. One of the cops signalled for his colleagues to wait, and headed towards them.

"Trent claims you started the fire," he said, looking at each of them individually.

"Trent Boyette is a liar, sir," one of them, a fat boy with light brown hair poking out from under his blue and yellow poofball hat, replied.

"Not us! We're good kids," a redheaded boy with a green ushanka added quickly.

The cop nodded, and strode back towards the handcuffed teen. "Alright, Trent, you're going away for a long time."

"Nooo!" Trent yelled as he was forced towards the cop car.

Just before he was shoved inside, he shouted at the four boys: "You better pray I never get out! You better all pray!"

"So long, Trent!" the fat boy, Eric Cartman, better known to everybody as Cartman, shouted mockingly after him.

The car sped away with Trent staring out the back window at the boys who'd condemned him to yet another spell in prison. His murderous glare pierced each boy, chilling their very souls. It said: _I will find you, and I will kill you._

After the car had sped away, the boys stood for a while in quiet contemplation. What they were contemplating was this: _Third time lucky. Three times we caused something bad to happen to Miss Claridge, and three times we've gotten away with it. Holy shit._

You see, if anyone had been observing the boys closely when the cop had spoken to them, they would have seen a glance – just a fleeting glance – between the four of them which told a whole different story to what they told the cop.

The redhead, Kyle Broflovski, was the first to speak. "When he gets out, he's gonna be really mad," he said with remarkable understatement.

"Dude, whatever. That's like 5 years from now," Cartman replied.

"Yeah, who cares," the third boy, Stan Marsh, a dark haired teen with a blue and red poofball hat, chimed in.

The fourth one, Kenny McCormick, a thin boy dressed in a tatty orange parka with the hood drawn tightly around his face, just smiled enigmatically.

The boys looked at the crowd, and the school, which was now just a blackened shell.

"What do you wanna do now?" Kyle asked.

"Anything. Let's just get away from here," Stan said.

"Let's go to my house. I feel like ice cream," Cartman said.

"Dude, you always feel like ice cream," Kyle chuckled, poking his fat friend.

"Ai! Don't touch me with your dirty Jew hands, kike!"

"Don't call me a kike, fatass!"

Cartman and Kyle headed off down the street, continuing to bicker loudly. Stan and Kenny smiled at each other, and followed them.

A sense of relief washed over Stan as he walked. Finally, it was all over – for now, anyway. He shuddered as he remembered Trent's parting glare, then he pushed it out of his mind. They had five years before they would have to face Trent again, and five years is a long time, especially in South Park, Colorado.

Days slowly became weeks, and weeks became months. As the time passed, Stan and his friends began to forget the boy they had condemned to prison.

But he never forgot them.

*

Trent Boyette stared at the calendar on his cell wall, then carefully added another cross to it. He stepped back, unable to take his eyes off one last, unfilled square.

_One day. Just one more day._

For the first time in five years, Trent Boyette smiled.

"Lights out, cons!"

Trent threw himself with almost boyish glee onto his threadbare prison bed and pulled the covers right up to his chin. He sighed deeply.

As he drifted off to sleep, he carried with him one thought. It was the same thought that had cheered him when he was depressed, soothed him when he was angry, and healed him when he was sick.

_I will find them. And I will kill them._

**Okay, that's it for chapter one, which was more of a prologue really. The main story starts in the next chapter. Anyway, please review!**

**Chapter 2 up soon…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Revenge Áu Tróis**

**Sorry for the long wait, but finally, here's chapter 2…**

**Chapter 2**

Stan Marsh stepped out into the bright sunshine and ran a hand through his newly cropped hair. It was only a haircut, and yet – he felt so different. Not like himself anymore. But then, he had been feeling like that for a while now.

"Oh honey, you look gorgeous!" His fiancée, Wendy Testaburger, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "You too, Kyle."

Behind him, Kyle Broflovski grunted. Stan smiled at him sympathetically as he touched his newly shorn hair for the first time.

"You look good, dude."

"Thanks," Kyle growled, glaring at Stan.

In truth, it wasn't their idea to get haircuts. Wendy had insisted, because: "I'm not marrying a skank, Stan." Stan grinned as he remembered Kyle's face when Wendy had told him that if he was to be best man he would have to get his Jewfro chopped, because Wendy didn't want anyone looking a mess on The Big Day. Kyle had only agreed because he didn't want to rock the boat. Now, after having had to pay Denver's best hairdresser $80 for the privilege of having his head shaved, Stan was willing to bet that Kyle wished he hadn't just rocked the boat, but capsized it.

"Stan, honey," Wendy's voice dragged him out of his reverie. "I have to go meet mom to sort out the flowers."

"Okay." That seemed to be Stan's default setting these days.

"You guys picked up your suits, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Good." She looked at her watch. "Good." She kissed him almost absentmindedly and pulled open her car door. Just before she got in, she asked: "You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes! Now go!"

"Okaaay!" Wendy got in, waved to them and drove away.

Kyle snorted. "Paranoid much?"

"Dude, it's the biggest day of our lives. She just wants everything to be right."

"Hmmm." They were just about to try and pick their way through the crowded Denver sidewalk when they heard a loud, mocking laugh behind them, then: "Oh my god, look at their faggy haircuts!"

They turned to see the large figure of Eric Cartman striding towards them, followed closely by the rather smaller one of Kenny McCormick.

"Shut up, fatass!" Kyle snapped at Cartman.

"Seriously, what were you guys thinking?" Cartman asked. He looked at them again and laughed. After he'd come up for air, he said: "Seriously Stan, you gotta start standing up to your ho!"

"It wasn't all Wendy's idea!" Stan protested weakly. Kyle looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, and I've just buttfucked Marilyn Monroe!" Cartman said, wiping his eyes.

"What's your problem?" Stan asked, looking at his three friends.

"Wendy is our problem," Kenny replied. "Dude, she _is _Bridezilla! Do you know what she said to me the other day? 'Kenny, remember to take a shower, and whatever you do, don't die. It'll ruin the whole day!'" Kenny put his hand to his forehead dramatically. "Yeah, like I've got any control over that!" he added sarcastically.

The foursome headed off up the street, Cartman in front, the others falling into a line behind him. Cartman was so fat that people had no choice but to walk round him, so for the other three it was easier to follow in his slipstream rather than try and negotiate the crowds themselves.

"Oh come on, you guys," Stan tried again. "Wendy is not that bad."

"Stan, have you seen the way she's been talking to people lately?" Kyle asked hotly. "Ordering them around like she's fucking royalty! And now she's started doing it to you, too, and you just sit there and take it like a fucking pussy! What gives, man?"

Stan didn't answer. He had a fairly good idea about what was bothering him, and it wasn't just his impending wedding. He'd felt strange ever since they moved to Denver. Well not strange, more…out of place. Living in South Park, he'd become used to all the strange occurrences and general weirdness, and he found the relative normality of Denver refreshing at first. But now he had to admit it – he was bored. He missed South Park and all the adventures he used to have, and he was desperate for something to happen. But nothing ever happened in Denver. There were no mechanised Barbra Streisands, no alien visitations, not even a ManBearPig. Stan sighed. His friends had all learnt to adapt, so why couldn't he?

They headed into a deserted side street and spread out into their usual line again.

"So Kahl," Cartman said, ultra casually, "you got a date for the wedding yet?"

"No, and I won't have one, either," Kyle answered. "I'm gonna have way too much to do on the day. Best man is a big responsibility."

"You can't turn up without a date, Kahl. I'm bringing Heidi, and even Kenny's managed to get a date that's not a member of his own family."

Kenny glared at him.

"You know, if you're having trouble, I hear Butters is dateless," Cartman said, a grin spreading across his fat face.

Kyle stepped in front of Cartman. "Alright, stop," he said, glaring at him.

"Stop what?" Cartman asked, his face a picture of innocence.

"This whole gay thing! I am not gay!"

Cartman smirked. "Whatever, Kahl."

"I'm not! Just because I don't happen to have a girlfriend right now, doesn't mean I'm gay!"

"Well, excuse me, Kahl, but you don't happen to have had a girlfriend for a few years!"

"I just haven't had the time for a girlfriend!" Kyle said, looking flustered.

Cartman smiled malevolently.

"Whatever." Kyle turned his back and walked off. "I am not dealing with this right now."

Stan rolled his eyes. Cartman had been playing the whole 'Kyle is gay' card ever since Stan had chosen him as best man. Stan knew that Cartman had desperately wanted to be best man himself, even though he knew that Stan and Kyle were practically brothers, so he probably wouldn't get picked. The gay thing was the only way Cartman could get at Kyle, and there was nothing he enjoyed more that winding Kyle up, especially when he himself was upset or angry.

"Hey, what's his problem?" Kenny asked nodding towards a tall blond guy, who was loitering at the end of the street, staring at them.

They had almost reached the end of the street when the guy began to move towards them. Kyle, who was slightly ahead of the others, tried to sidestep round him, but the guy moved quickly, blocking his path.

"Uh, is there a problem?" Kyle asked nervously.

"Hey Ky, maybe you're about to get lucky!" Cartman called caustically.

Blondie said nothing, just continued to stare.

"Dude, what is your problem?" Stan asked as they reached Kyle.

The guy seemed strangely familiar. He was wearing a red and black checked shirt, torn off at the shoulders, a black vest and jeans. Muscles bulged everywhere, stretching his clothes to their limits. And then there were his dark, menacing brown eyes. Stan had seen the guy somewhere before, he was sure of it.

"Do I know you?" he asked tentatively.

"Five years," the guy drawled suddenly. "It's been five long, miserable years."

Ice struck Stan's heart as a long forgotten name forced its way to the front of his mind.

"T-Trent Boyette?!" he stammered.

Trent grinned. "What, you think just because you moved to Denver I wouldn't find you again?"

The four men began to back away. Trent advanced on them, slowly.

"Wow, long time, huh?" Cartman said. He laughed nervously. "So Trent, how have you been?"

"How have I been? I've been rotting away in prison while you guys have been out here living your lives. That's how I've been." Trent pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Now you listen, and you listen good. I'm gonna get you. It might be a day from now, or a week, or a month – hell, it may even be an hour from now. But know this – I will have my retribution." He grinned maliciously at each of them. "Be seein' ya, boys." And with that, he turned on his heel and walked back up the street.

Stan, Kyle, Cartman and Kenny stood in stunned silence, watching him as he disappeared round the corner.

"That-that's it?" Cartman asked incredulously.

"There's gotta be something else," Kyle said, looking around nervously. "Trent would never let us off that easily."

"He's playing with us," Stan said. Dread was rising inside him like steam. "Some day soon he's gonna come for us." He looked at his friends. The terror in their eyes matched his. "This isn't over, not by a long shot."

*

Trent jogged along a crowded Denver street, ducking and diving his way through the throngs of people, until he saw a green Chevy parked at the side of the road. He grinned. Just like they'd planned. He ran around to the passenger side. As he pulled open the door, he was greeted by a fog of cigarette smoke. He got in, leaving the door slightly ajar to avoid choking to death.

"Well?"

"Oh, you should've been there man. It was beautiful. Their faces…" Trent shut his eyes and savoured the image. "I definitely got 'em shakin'. They'll be so busy lookin' out for me, they won't even see you comin', Christophe."

"Good." Christophe, a medium built man with dirty light brown hair, took a satisfied drag on his cigarette. "Soon we will have our vengeance, my friend."

"What'd they do to you?" Trent asked, glancing across to the Frenchman. "You've never told me why you want them so bad."

"'Zat is my business," Christophe replied, stubbing out one cigarette, and almost simultaneously light up another. "Ma source tells me zat Stan Marsh is getting married in two days. Zat is when we will strike."

Trent nodded. "And the plan, you sure its gonna work? Cause I'll tell you right now, Christophe, I am not going back to prison! I will not wait another five years!"

"Ze plan, she is foolproof."

Trent pulled out his switchblade, a black handled knife with 'Kill All Betrayers' inscribed on the blade. "She better be. I'm warning you, Christophe. Anything goes wrong, and I'll carve you like a chicken."

The Frenchman turned to Trent and grinned, showing all of his yellow, nicotine stained teeth. "You could try, but you would not be quick enough." He pushed the knife away. "Relax, _mon ami_. I promise you, in two days, you will have your retribution." He narrowed his eyes. "And I shall have mine."

**Okay that's it for chapter 2! Please review!**

**Chapter 3 up soon…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**A big thanks to all readers/reviewers, keep going, this is where things start getting interesting…**

**I don't own South Park.**

**Chapter 3**

"Hey guys, lets get another round," Kenny said. He downed the last of his beer and looked at them expectantly.

"Dude, slow down," Kyle said. "That's like your fifth beer already, and we've only been here an hour!"

"Oh come on, its Stanny's stag night!" Kenny cried, playfully ruffling Stan's short black hair. "We're supposed to be caning it!"

He looked at the other three with frustration. Kyle was taking occasional sips from an orange juice, Stan was still nursing his first beer of the night, and Cartman was only just finishing his second. They would never survive a McCormick family celebration, he reflected with a smile. The minimum requirement at those occasions was to drink a cow's weight in whisky.

"I'm sorry, guys, I'm just not in the mood," Stan said, rubbing his forehead.

"You can't let this whole Trent thing get to you," Kenny said.

"Its kinda difficult not to, Kenny," Stan snapped. "You heard Trent yesterday. He could strike at any time, and we wouldn't know about it until it was too late." He sighed and put his head in his hands. "And that's nothing compared to what Wendy and my family are gonna do to me if they find out I've been lying all these years."

The other three fell silent as they considered the same thing. They had been lying about the various incidents involving Trent since they were just four years old, when their "Fireman" game had gone badly wrong, and Miss Claridge had been left disabled and disfigured.

"I need another drink," Cartman said, swallowing the last of his beer. "Anybody else?"

The other three nodded. Stan got up.

"Hold up. I'm coming with you," he said to Cartman.

They wandered to the bar and ordered three beers, an orange juice and…

"A double vodka," Cartman said. Noticing Stan's expression, he added quickly: "Its not for me." He poured it into Kyle's orange juice as Stan paid the bartender.

"Dude!"

"What? I'm just trying to liven things up a bit!"

"Whatever." Stan sighed. He really wasn't in the mood for this right now, not when Trent Boyette was out there, just waiting for his opportunity. Stan had thought about it a lot since Trent's surprise reappearance, and he'd realised that all his previous attacks had one thing in common: he'd gone after them when they were together, rather than individually. And if his theory was correct, then tonight they could be in serious trouble. And don't even mention tomorrow…

"Yo, Stan!" Cartman said suddenly, clicking his chunky fingers in front of Stan's face. "You with me, babe?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry," Stan said, shaking his head. "Just zoned out for a minute there."

"You've been doing that a lot recently," Cartman commented.

They grabbed their drinks and headed back to their table. Cartman placed Kyle's spiked drink in front of him with a malicious smile.

"So, whats been up with you lately?" Cartman asked Stan as they sat down.

"Nothing!"

Kyle, who had, up until this point, been sitting quietly making some last minute adjustments to his best man's speech, put his notepad and pen down and picked up his drink. Cartman grinned.

"Stan, I know you better than anyone," Kyle said emphatically. "You've definitely not been yourself lately. You've been quiet, almost withdrawn. That's not like you at all. And don't tell me its because of the whole Trent thing, because this was going on way before that." He gulped some of his drink. Cartman's grin became even wider.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy if I tell you," Stan said quietly.

"No we won't. Dude, we've been friends all our lives. You can tell us anything."

"Okay." Stan said. He took a deep breath. What he was about to say sounded crazy, even to him. "I'm starting to think the wedding might be…cursed."

He looked up from the spot on the floor he'd been staring at and glanced at each of his friends, trying to gauge their reaction. They all stared at him, speechless, then Cartman burst out laughing and said loudly: "What an asshole!"

"I'm serious, guys," Stan said, annoyed. "I've had a bad feeling about the wedding for ages. I mean, look what's happened so far." He leant forward and began ticking off on his fingers. "Bebe's car accident, our first choice venue burns down, Trent Boyette, and now," he lowered his voice, "I think Wendy's dad is in some kind of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?" Kyle asked.

"Financial, I think," Stan answered. "I heard him on the phone last night. I don't know for sure, but I think he's borrowed some money. And not from a bank, either."

"Loan shark?" Kenny suggested.

"Probably," Stan said. "But you know what gets me about it? He never let on for a second when we were planning the wedding. If he was having money trouble, why didn't he say anything?"

"What, and risk upsetting _poor_ Wendy?" Kyle said sarcastically. "We couldn't have that, now could we?"

"Alright Kyle, what is your problem?" Stan asked him angrily.

"What are you talking about?"

"These constant little digs you keep having at Wendy!" Kyle looked at him, taken aback. "What, you think I haven't noticed?"

Kyle stared at his hands. "Look, I just don't get why you're defending her all the time, when her behaviour's been indefensible! Stan, her dad has put his neck on the line to go to some loan shark, and for what? A piece of paper!" He took a big swig of his doctored drink.

"You don't know that its for the wedding!" Stan protested vainly.

"Oh come on, wake up! What else is it gonna be for?"

Stan massaged his forehead tiredly. "I don't know."

"Exactly." Kyle downed the last of his drink. "I just hope tomorrow's worth it, Stan, I really do."

Stan looked up at him, incensed. "Don't you sit there all fucking self righteous, Kyle! I mean it! I don't need that from you right now! Either me and Wendy have your full support – or you don't bother turning up tomorrow. Clear?"

"Crystal," Kyle said, glaring at the floor.

All four sat in silence for a moment, Kyle and Stan facing away from each other. Cartman and Kenny exchanged glances. They weren't used to such a poisonous atmosphere between the two Super Best Friends, who had been almost like Siamese twins for much of their lives. A Kyle and Stan argument was rarer than a meteor shower.

"Well, I say we have another drink," Cartman said, in a bid to diffuse the tension. "Whaddaya say? Kahl?"

"Yeah," Kyle replied, staring at Stan.

"That's my boy, Kahl," Cartman said, grinning evilly. "That's my boy."

*

Several hours and many drinks later, they staggered out of the bar, Kyle holding onto buildings, and Stan, for support. Cartman followed close behind, a comatose Kenny thrown over his shoulder.

Despite all his earlier worries, Stan was flying high as he weaved along the pavement. He felt incredibly happy, and not just from the booze. In a little over eight hours, he would be marrying the girl of his dreams. He wanted to enjoy this moment and forget about later, when all his fears surrounding the wedding would come back to haunt him once he'd sobered up.

"Hey, yo guys, wait up!" Cartman shouted.

Stan and Kyle turned. Cartman was some way behind them, struggling to walk and keep hold of Kenny. He staggered on for a few paces then stopped next to a bench, panting.

"Ah, fuck it." He lifted Kenny off his shoulder and deposited him on the bench. Kenny never stirred. He joined the others, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Damn. Who knew po'boy weighed so much?"

"Dude! You can't jusht leave him there!" Stan slurred, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the bench.

"Why not?" Cartman asked. "I'm pretty sure he's slept in worse places."

"Yeah. Like his houseshh," Kyle said. He started giggling and fell into Stan.

Cartman rolled his eyes. "C'mon you guys. We got a wedding in a few hours."

Surprisingly, Cartman was the most sober out of all of them, despite putting away nearly as much as Kenny. Stan figured it was because the alcohol took longer to get around his larger frame than it did with their smaller ones. But when the booze did finally hit the spot, it had quite an effect on him. One minute Cartman would be almost stone cold sober, the next he'd be acting as drunk as them.

They wandered for a couple more blocks until they got to Kyle's street, which was virtually deserted, apart from a few parked cars. Stan, who was now having to hold Kyle up, called out to Cartman as Kyle burst into a tuneless rendition of 'What Would Bryan Boytano Do?'.

"Dude! Little help here?"

Cartman, who was a little way ahead, turned back and called: "No way, man! I'm not being seen with that!" He nodded toward Kyle.

"Cartman, you caused this! The least you can do is help!"

Cartman flipped him off and carried on walking. Stan tried to quieten Kyle by putting his hand over his mouth. He didn't know what time it was, but he knew it was late and Kyle's neighbours probably wouldn't appreciate his tone-deaf singing.

"Dude, seriously," Stan said, giggling as Kyle tried to force his hand away from his mouth.

They carried on like that until they reached Kyle's house. Stan let go of him and shoved him gently towards the house.

"Alright, you're home. Now go to bed," he said, collapsing into fits of laughter as Kyle zig-zagged across the front lawn. Next to him, Cartman started to sway like a tree in a breeze. Stan grinned. The booze had found the sweet spot.

"Stupid drunk Jew," Cartman murmured as Kyle, who'd managed to navigate his way to the front door, fumbled with his keys.

After a few attempts, he managed to unlock the door – and promptly fell through it as it opened. "I'm ai'ight," he said, using the doorframe to haul himself up again.

After the door closed, Stan and Cartman set off down the street, laughing and leaning heavily on one another. Stan couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Kyle. His parents, who'd been overprotective enough when they'd lived in South Park, had become even more protective when they moved to Denver, and rarely let their son out without a curfew, even though he was now nineteen. If they saw the state he was in tonight, Stan figured they'd never let him out of the house again.

They were getting close to Cartman's house when Stan first noticed the green Chevy. It was no more than a few metres ahead of them, with its headlight burning and engine idling. Stan stopped and eyed it warily.

"Uh, Cartman? There's a car on the other side of the street."

"Wow, there's a car on the other side of the street. Someone call the news."

Stan ignored this. "Dude, there's someone in there. They're just sitting there…"

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the engine roared and the car jumped towards them. Stan stood, frozen with fear, watching the headlights rush towards him. There was no time to react. He shut his eyes and braced himself. _I'm sorry, Wendy. I really am._

Suddenly there was a screech of tyres as the car braked. Stan felt a rush of air as it shot past him. He stood, rigid, his eyes tightly shut until he was sure it was gone. Then he opened them, and with a few deep breaths, sank down to the pavement, his legs no longer able to hold him. The car had missed them by mere millimetres, he was sure of it. He looked up at Cartman, who was standing rooted to the spot, staring in the direction the Chevy had gone.

"Trent Boyette," they said in unison.

"Lucky for us he missed," Cartman said slowly, "or you'd have been marrying Wendy in a wheelchair." He looked down at Stan. "Or not at all," he added darkly.

"He missed on purpose," Stan said, amazed at how calm he sounded. "It was another warning." He stood up and absentmindedly brushed dirt from his jeans.

"Come on, lets get out of here in case he does decide to come back and finish the job," Cartman said anxiously.

They started towards Cartman's house again. As the sheer piss-your-pants shock began to wear off, a horrible thought entered Stan's overtired, drink dulled brain.

_He won't finish the job tonight. He'll do it tomorrow. He's going to attack the wedding._

*

Trent walked into his tatty old motel room, laughing to himself. Tonight had been the most fun he'd had since, well…ever. Lucky for those two assholes he was such a good driver. The urge to splatter them across the pavement had almost been overwhelming, but he'd resisted because "zat isn't part of ze plan," as Christophe had kept reminding him.

"'Ow did it go?"

He jumped as the Frenchman stepped out of whichever dark corner he'd been loitering in.

"Goddamit Christophe! Don't do that!"

He and Christophe had been staying in the crappy old motel for the last few weeks, while The Plan was formulated. With its peeling paint and outdated furniture, it was hardly the Ritz, but it was all they could afford. Christophe was next door to Trent, but he had a nasty habit of turning up in Trent's room unexpectedly, mostly when Trent was taking a shower.

"You checkin' up on me or something?"

"Or somezing, yes."

"It went good, okay? I didn't kill them or anything, if that's what you're worried about."

"Good." Christophe stared at the floor.

He seemed edgier than usual. Maybe it was just nerves about tomorrow, Trent figured. Or, having heard about Christophe's reputation, maybe not.

"What's up with you?" he asked. "You out of cigarettes or something?"

"Non. It is notzing." Christophe spat on the floor and glanced quickly in the direction of an adjoining room. Not quickly enough. Trent caught the look and a sudden realisation hit him.

"Is _he_ here?"

"Yes." Which explained Christophe's edginess.

"Dammit Christophe, I thought you said he wasn't coming!" Trent said in a low voice. He chanced a look at the paper thin wall, then shook his head. Now he was doing it.

"I tried to stop 'im," Christophe said dully. "But 'e insisted. It seems zere ave been…changes."

Trent stared at him. "What kind of changes?"

"We will explain tomorrow. Now, get some sleep. You will need eet if we are too succeed. Goodnight, mon ami." Christophe turned and left before Trent could question him further.

So he's slumming it with us, is he, Trent thought as he got undressed. Well okay. That's fine. But if he gets in my way tomorrow, I'll slice him open.

He climbed into bed. For a few hours he tossed and turned, unable to sleep, his mind and body still buzzing from what had happened earlier, and what was still to come. Eventually, after a couple more hours of relentless tossing, Trent gave up on sleep. Instead he took a shower. Afterwards he sat naked on the bed, staring out of the grimy window. Waiting.

He smiled as he watched the sun rise. After five years in a tiny, windowless prison cell, it was still a novelty to him. he got off the bed and dressed as the first rays crept into his room. He left not long after, excitement building to a crescendo inside him. _Finally, today's the day. My time. Payback time._

**Wow, that was longer than I thought…anyway, please review!**

**Chapter 4 up soon…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Thank you for all reviews so far, especially Guardian Angel – I find your reviews really helpful, glad you're enjoying the fic!**

**RIP Michael Jackson – can't believe it.**

**Chapter 4**

Stan Marsh lifted his head and rubbed his eyes tiredly. His head was banging to the beat of a throbbing headache. He took a few gulps from a bottle of water and finally chanced a look in the mirror. His pale, sickly face contrasted sharply with his smart black wedding suit and gold tie. He groaned and placed his head against the cool surface of the mirror.

"Stan?" Cartman said.

"Yeah?"

"It's nearly time, bro."

"I know."

Stan turned to face his three friends, who all looked at him with concern. Well, two of them did. Kyle had barely lifted his head from his chest since they'd arrived at Denver's Bestwestern Hotel just two hours earlier.

"This is a nice room," Kenny said, admiringly, looking around at the oak panelled walls, antique furniture and four poster bed.

"I don't understand what happened," Kyle said in a small voice. "I was only on orange juice last night."

"The marquee looks nice, too," Kenny said, looking out of the window to the hotel's large landscaped gardens.

"Cartman, you bought some of my drinks. Did you see what happened?" Kyle asked softly.

"No, Kahl. It's a mystery." Cartman said innocently. He grinned to himself. Buying all those double vodkas had definitely been worth it. If Kyle could've seen himself…

"Whats funny?" Kyle asked. Somehow he looked even paler than normal, if that were possible.

"The gardens look – "

"Kenny, if you say the gardens look nice, I swear to God I'm going to kill you!" Stan snapped.

"Dude, what's up?" Kenny asked.

Stan glared at the floor. They all knew very well what was up with him. He and Cartman had told Kenny and Kyle about the near miss with Trent when they'd all met up that morning, but when Stan had tried to tell them his fears about Trent attacking the wedding, the other three had looked at him like he was an elderly relative who'd gone senile. For the last half an hour, they'd stood around making small talk, purposely avoiding the Trent subject, and all the while Stan's frustration had built up inside him like an uncontrollable tornado. He sat down on the bed and gripped a bedpost until his knuckles went white.

Kyle walked to the bed and knelt in front of him. "Stan, we keep telling you, Trent doesn't know about the wedding. How can he?"

"He didn't know about the stag night either, but there he was!" Stan said loudly. Christ, he sounded completely irrational. No wonder no-one wanted to listen to him.

"Look, there's every chance this'll go off without a hitch. Right?" Kyle looked at Kenny and Cartman for support, but none was forthcoming. "What you're feeling right now is just wedding jitters. You're gonna be _fine_."

"No, no, no, Kyle, you don't understand," Stan said, his frustration giving way to pure, blind panic. He grabbed Kyle by the shoulders. "Trent Boyette is going to kill us. You know it, I know it, and they know it." He nodded toward Cartman and Kenny. "We are going to die."

"No Stan, its – "

"He could be here right now!" Stan said. Fear crept up inside him, squeezing his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. His heart rate was off the scale. "He could be here right now, and we wouldn't know! We have to call it off, we have to…" His voice tailed off as he gasped for air.

Kyle grabbed his arms and gave him a shake. "Stan? Stan! You need to listen to me, okay? Calm. Down. Breathe. That's it, nice and slow."

Stan leant back on the bed as he struggled to get his breathing under control. He'd never had a panic attack before in his life. He'd felt pressure building up inside him during the past few days, like water against a dam, but he'd chosen to ignore it, even though he'd found himself struggling to breathe a couple of times. Now the dam had burst, the pressure was draining, and Stan suddenly felt incredibly stupid. He'd allowed himself to get all worked up like this on his _wedding day_. His friends were right; Trent had no way of knowing about it. How could he? Still, a little voice in the back of his head taunted: _Yeah right. If that's what you want to believe._ Stan ignored it and tried to focus on his breathing, which was slowly returning to something resembling normal. Just as he was recovering, there was a knock at the door.

"Come…come in," Stan said, between laboured breaths.

A short, thin guy with neatly cropped blond hair popped his head round the door. "Hey fellas," he said. "Gee, I don't know much about weddings, but isn't it the bride who's supposed to be late?"

"We're late?" Stan cried, standing up on legs that felt like jelly. "Oh Jesus!"

"Don't set him off again, Butters, please," Kyle said, putting his hands out to steady a swaying Stan.

Leopold 'Butters' Stotch looked round at the four of them. "Is everything all right, fellas?" he asked, concerned.

Stan looked at the others, then back to Butters. "Trent Boyette's back," he said simply.

"Trent Boyette! Oh sweet Jesus!"

Butters was an old friend from their South Park days. He'd been at pre-school with them, and had witnessed the 'Fireman' game that got Trent set to Juvenile Hall.

"Relax Butters, he got you the first time around," Cartman said laconically.

Butters nodded and winced. He remembered the Polish bike ride and Swirly – amongst other things – that Trent had given him all too well.

"All right, let's do this." Stan straightened his jacket and tie. Thankfully, he felt a lot more normal now his little drama was over, and part of him was actually looking forward to the ceremony.

"Hey guys, I was just thinkin', why would Trent be going after you again?" Butters asked as they left the hotel room. "I mean, it was him that burnt the school down, right?"

Stan glanced back quickly. "Yeah, something like that," he said. He started to walk a little faster. As he did, so did Kyle, Kenny and Cartman.

Butters stared at them as they began to accelerate away from him. Why were they acting so strange all of a sudden? It was almost like they felt guilty about something. A thought hit him as he followed them out into the garden, which was strange, because thoughts normally swerved around his brain rather than risk entering. But this one shot straight in and hit the bullseye.

"Oh my God," he said softly. "It was you."

*

"Dammit! Is she there yet?" Stan asked as they hurried towards a pagoda in the middle of the garden.

"No! You're okay, Stan!"

It was pretty spectacular, Stan had to admit. The pagoda that he and Wendy would be married in had flowers of all colours and varieties wound around its pillars. A long reel of white silk doubled as the aisle and ran up the steps into the pagoda. Just off to the right of that was the marquee, which was where the wedding breakfast would take place afterwards. The guests, of which there were nearly eighty, sat on either side of the silk on fold out chairs.

Stan tried not to think about the cost of it all as they arrived. The sheer thought of it made him feel ill, and the thought of Wendy's dad having to go to a loan shark to pay for it made him feel worse still. Maybe Kyle was right after all.

They walked down the aisle, Stan forcing himself to return the guests' smiles'. While Cartman and Kenny went off to join their dates, Stan and Kyle headed for the front row to await Wendy. His parents smiled proudly as he sat down next to them. His older sister Shelley glared at him.

Stan turned around, trying to spot any of his old school friends among the guests (the ones Wendy had allowed him to invite), when his eyes fell on a young man with curly blond hair, who looked around the same age as himself, sitting in the third row on the opposite side of the aisle. Stan was sure he'd never seen him before, yet he was oddly familiar. The guy saw him staring and gave him a grin and a thumbs up.

"Kyle, do you see that guy over there? Dark suit, blue tie. Blond hair."

"Whereabouts?"

"The guy over – "

Stan was cut off by the Wedding March, being played by a kindly looking old lady on an organ near the pagoda. Everybody stood up.

"All right, this is it. You got the rings?" he asked as he and Kyle headed for the pagoda.

Kyle patted his pockets, alarmed. "Shit. I left them at home!"

"What!" Stan went pale.

"Dude, I'm kidding. They're right here." Kyle reached inside his jacket and produced the rings.

"Don't do that!" Stan hissed, punching his friend's arm.

They headed inside the pagoda and peered down the aisle. First, wearing gorgeous red dresses, came the bridesmaids, Annie and Red (Bebe, unfortunately, was still in hospital after her crash), and then, after them, Wendy - a vision in white on her father's arm. Her dress was strapless and tumbled to her feet. It was so simple but elegant, it seemed to flow with every movement. Her long black hair was swept up, accessorised by a small tiara. Again, so simple yet so elegant. She took Stan's breath away as she made her way into the pagoda. _This is what it's all about;_ he thought as Mr. Testaburger kissed his beautiful daughter and took his seat amongst the guests. _This feeling right now. Nobody can take this away from me, not even Trent Boyette._

She stood facing him and smiled.

"Hey," she said shyly.

"Hey," he replied. He wondered if she was as overwhelmed as him.

"Shall we begin?" the priest said from behind his makeshift altar. "We are gathered here today…"

Stan's stomach, which had been one big knot before the ceremony, began to unwind as it progressed. Before he knew it, they were almost at the end.

"Stanley Parker Marsh, do you take Wendy Marie Testaburger to…what the hell?"

He looked down as a black disc, around about the same size and weight as a hockey puck landed on the floor of the pagoda and rolled over to Stan's right foot. As it settled, Stan noticed there was a small hole in the top, a bit like the one that was slowly forming in his heart.

"We have to go!" he said, grabbing Wendy by the hands.

"But Stan, we haven't fini – "

Wendy was interrupted by a hissing sound from the floor. They looked down in time to see thick, noxious gas pouring out of the disc.

"Everybody get outta here, now!" Stan shouted.

Gas started to fill the pagoda, getting into his eyes and down his throat. Somehow, he seemed to have lost Wendy. His eyes stinging and streaming, he groped around for her. His throat felt like it was on fire.

"Wendy!" he rasped. "Kyle!"

He heard screams as well as coughing and spluttering outside the pagoda. _Oh God, he's attacking the guests._ Pain shot through his knee as he walked into something.

"Kyle? Wendy? Anybody?" His voice was barely a croak now.

"Stan?"

Stan turned toward the voice. "Butters?"

"Yeah." He sounded muffled. "Come with me, Stan. It's going to be all right."

"Wendy." Stan croaked. He felt dizzy and disorientated, and had to fight an urge to throw up. "Where's Wendy?"

"She's fine. I'll take you to her. Grab my hand, its right in front of you."

Stan tried to open his eyes, but the gas was so strong it felt like his eyeballs were burning in their sockets. He groped around until he found Butters' outstretched hand. _Goddamit, Trent Boyette, I swear to God I'm going to kill you._

"Watch the steps, now."

Stan put one foot in front of the other and walked slowly down the steps, feeling his way with his feet. As soon as they hit the ground, Stan and Butters began to run. Stan could still hear the guests behind him and instantly felt guilty for leaving them, but he had to get to Wendy. After a few minutes, they stopped. He still couldn't open his eyes, so he had no idea where they were. It was windy, so they were still outside, although he couldn't hear the guests anymore. He heard a car door slam nearby.

"Where are we?" he croaked.

Even though he was well away from the gas now, it didn't look like the effects were going to wear off anytime soon. Stan felt like he'd been maced.

"It's all going to be okay, Stan," Butters said. He no longer sounded muffled.

"Where's Wendy?"

There was no answer. Butters had let go of his hand. Stan turned to where he thought he was standing.

"Butters?"

Still no answer. Something strange was definitely going on here. Come to think of it, how come Butters hadn't been affected by the gas? Before Stan had even had time to contemplate that thought, something hard slammed into the back of his head.

He thought he heard someone laughing nastily as he hit the ground.

"Tr-Tr…" he began, but his voice slipped away as he fell into darkness.

And then Stanley Parker Marsh felt nothing.

**That's the end of chapter 4, ****please review!**

**Chapter 5 up soon…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Revenge Au Trois**

**Ah, chapter 5. I can't believe its chapter 5 already! Cheers to everyone who's read/reviewed so far****. This chapter is mainly filler, but it'll pick up again after that. Trent and Christophe's mystery partner is also revealed in this one (and no, it isn't Butters XD), so keep reading!**

**I don't own nothin'.**

**Chapter 5**

"Stan, wake up."

The voice was distant, but Stan knew it well. He tried to lift his head, but it felt as heavy as lead.

"Stan, wake up."

The voice was closer now. Stan opened his eyes slowly. For a moment, everything blurred together, then separated out as his vision returned. His eyes were still sore, but at least he could see – at least, he thought he could. The light was so dim it was nearly impossible to see anything. He went to rub his eyes, and found that he couldn't move his hands. He looked around, and soon discovered the source of the problem: his wrists were tied to the arms of a chair. Not just his wrists, but his ankles too. He gave a few futile tugs on the rope.

"Its no use, dude, its too tight. He got us good," Kyle said.

Stan squinted in the semi darkness at his Super Best Friend, who sat next to him, tied in the same way.

"Where are Cartman and Kenny?" he asked.

"Right here."

Stan leaned forward as far as the ropes would allow. Cartman was sitting next to Kyle, and Kenny was next to him. The air smelt musky and dusty, and the floor creaked ominously under his feet. Stan figured they were in some old building, maybe a warehouse.

"What happened to you guys?" he asked. "How'd Trent get you?"

"Right after you got gassed a load more of those black disc things landed amongst the guests," Kenny explained. "I tried to stay with Cartman, but we got separated in the confusion. The next thing I know, someone punches me in the face. Hard. Then I woke up here."

"Same here," Cartman said.

"I remember getting out of the pagoda," Kyle said. "then Butters came and got me. He said you and Wendy were okay, and he'd take me to you. Instead he took me somewhere and I got hit over the head."

"That's pretty much what happened to me," Stan said. "Why the hell would Butters be working with Trent? Trent hates him."

"Maybe he had no choice," Kenny suggested.

"Yeah well, I'm more concerned with where we are right now," Kyle said. "And more importantly, where the hell's Trent?"

Just as Kyle finished speaking, a light came on, dazzling them momentarily.

"I'm right here, Broflovski," a familiar voice drawled. "And as for where you are, you don't need to worry about that, since you ain't getting out of here alive."

Trent strode over and stood in front of them, grinning. But Stan wasn't looking at Trent, or his evil grin. His eyes were fixed on four nooses hanging from the ceiling behind Trent. He took a deep breath as the full reality of the situation began to hit home. At first, the whole thing had felt completely surreal, like one of their old adventures. They'd always known, even when times were really tough, that they'd find a way out in the end. But now, looking at the nooses hanging there with silent menace, Stan could see no way out at all.

"Dude, I think I know where we are," Kyle whispered, interrupting Stan's morose thoughts. "I think we're in South Park. Look."

He nodded across the room, which was, as Stan had correctly predicted, an old warehouse. Stan, glad to drag his eyes away from those awful nooses, looked to where Kyle had indicated. In the corner of the warehouse, near a boarded up window, a pole leaned against the wall. It had an old sheet tied to it, with two words painted on it that had a strong resonance with Stan's childhood: La Resistance.

"Oh my god," he murmured. "We're in Carl's Warehouse."

"That's right," Trent said triumphantly. "You're smarter than you look, Marsh. You were right about another thing as well. I couldn't have done this by myself." He turned toward the door. "Get in here, Christophe!"

"Christophe?" Kyle said wonderingly. "It couldn't be…"

"Allo." A young man dressed all in khaki with a spade attached to his back, joined Trent. "Eet ees good to see you again." He gave them a nasty smile.

"You?" Cartman said, stunned. "I thought you were dead."

Christophe moved over and stood in front of Cartman and Kenny. "Unfortunately, non," he said. Cartman reeled in his seat. Christophe had the look – and smell – of someone who'd been living in a rubbish dump. He stared hard at Kenny, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Christophe, aka The Mole, was a mercenary the boys had hired when they'd formed La Resistance during the American/Canadian war. They'd always assumed he'd been killed by guard dogs during their mission to free Terrance and Phillip.

"So, what happened?" Kyle asked, clearly unnerved by this ghost from the past.

"I died," he answered. "I was on my way to meet God – zat beetch, zat merciful faggot…" Christophe clenched his fists, then composed himself. "Zen, ze next thing I know, I am back in my own body." He went back to staring at Kenny again.

"Dude, what's your problem?" Kenny asked. He had never met this guy before, he knew nothing about him – only what his friends had told him – yet he was staring at Kenny like he was Satan's lovechild.

"Someone made a wish zat forced me back into my own body," Christophe said, not taking his eyes off Kenny. "Someone wished zat everything would go back to ze way it was before ze war. And everything did, including me."

"That was all Kenny," Cartman said quickly.

"Shut up, fatass!"

"You denied me my showdown wiz God," Christophe said emotionlessly. "Now you will pay." He reached into his jacket.

"Calm yourself, Christophe," a cool, calm voice said from the doorway. A cool, calm, British voice. "There'll be plenty of time for that later."

Stan's heart nearly jumped out of his chest as a young man with curly blond hair, dark suit and blue tie entered the warehouse.

"I am sorry, Gregory," Christophe said guiltily.

"Gregory?!" Stan cried.

Gregory had also lived in South Park during the war, and he was the one who'd sent the boys to Christophe. He'd been Wendy's boyfriend at the time, before she dumped him for Stan.

"Yes, it is I," Gregory said, with a reverence that no-one else felt.

"Why the hell were you at my wedding?" Stan asked angrily.

"Well, I know I didn't get an official invite, but I thought I'd better pop along and show my support," Gregory replied nonchalantly. "I did finance it, after all."

Stan felt as though fireworks were going off inside his skull. "You're the loan shark," he mumbled.

"I prefer the term 'business partner', but if that's how you want to put it, then yes."

"What the hell have _you_ got against us?" Cartman asked.

"You stole my mission. You stole my victory." His eyes fell on Stan. "You stole Wendy."

"I didn't steal Wendy," Stan said hotly. "She dumped you because you're an asshole."

"What do you mean; we stole your mission and your victory?" Kyle asked.

Gregory's eyes narrowed. "It was my plan to rescue Terrance and Phillip from the USO show. I was supposed to carry it out, not you. I was fully prepared to die for my efforts, knowing that people would celebrate me afterwards. I even led a great musical number. Then you stole my plan from me. You were celebrated and I was forgotten by everyone, including Wendy. I had no choice but to leave afterwards, of course. I come from a proud family – they couldn't handle the shame."

"I didn't even notice you'd gone," Cartman sneered.

Gregory ignored this. "Still, I may not be able to change the past, but I can certainly change the future."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Stan asked.

"Poor Wendy, sitting there all alone, wondering what the hell just happened," Gregory said, with a pervy grin. "She's going to need a friend, wouldn't you say?"

"You sick bastard. You did all this just so you could get close to Wendy?" Stan asked, appalled.

"She's worth it," Gregory said defiantly, lifting his chin.

"You're unbelievable," Stan said, shaking his head. He really couldn't take any more nasty surprises.

"Hey, what's going on in here?" a familiar voice asked. "We really should be getting them back because Wendy will be getting worried and…" Butters' voice trailed off as he took in the scene before him.

"Butters, when I get outta this, I'm gonna kill you!" Cartman shouted.

Butters looked round at Gregory, Trent, and finally, Christophe. "Why are they tied up? And why are there…" he went white and swallowed hard at the sight of the nooses. "You said you were just gonna scare them. Christophe?" he asked in a small voice.

"Butters, zere is somezing you must understand," Christophe said. He walked over to Butters and placed his hands on his shoulders. "I was lying."

"Lying? But…what…" Butters' mouth formed words he couldn't say.

"I lied about a lot of things, Butters. I am not a nice person."

Butters' eyes filled with tears. "But…you said you loved me."

"Yes, zis was anuzzer lie," Christophe said, bored. "I 'ad to gain your trust so you would 'elp us." He snorted. "Love. What is zat anyway? My muzzer told me she loved me once, zen she poked me in ze eye wiz a fork."

Butters began to back away towards the door, a mixture of shock and fear crossing his face.

"Ah, no, Butters, I am afraid I cannot let you leave," Christophe said, grabbing him forcefully by the arm. "Do not worry – I will look after you."

He kissed Butters full on the lips, while poor Butters squirmed in his grip. Then he shoved him into a corner.

After a short embarrassed silence, which was briefly punctuated by Cartman shouting: "Faggots!", Gregory said: "Right, well, interesting as that was, I'm afraid I have somewhere else to be."

"You're not staying?" Trent asked, grinning widely.

"No. I really should get back to the hotel. Poor Wendy will need a shoulder to cry on when she finds out what's happened to her husband." He slapped his forehead in mock dismay. "Oh no, sorry, you didn't get that far, did you?" He grinned maliciously at Stan, who by now was ready to explode.

"You stay the hell away from Wendy!" he growled.

"Yes, and how exactly do you plan to make me?" Gregory asked innocently.

Stan didn't reply, he just sat seething in his chair, anger tearing at his insides like a knife.

"Well, I'll be off," Gregory said cheerfully. "I'll leave you in the capable hands of Trent and Christophe. I'd like to say its been nice, but we all know I'd be lying."

He headed toward the door, stopping to mutter to Christophe: "Deal with him,", and nod in the direction of the sobbing Butters.

After he'd gone, Trent and Christophe visibly relaxed. They grinned at each other as Trent pulled out his black switchblade. Christophe cracked his knuckles menacingly.

Trent flipped the blade up. "Lets have some fun."

**Well, there we go. Hope you enjoyed Chapter 5, and please review. I love hearing what you think – plus, it's my birthday this weekend, so it would make me extra happy! ; )**

**Chapter 6 up soon…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Revenge ****Àu Tròis**

**Many thanks for the reviews – and the happy birthdays – they are much appreciated!**

**As for this chapter, sorry Wendy-haters, but she's going to be playing a bigger role from here on in.**

**If you get chance, you must read My Brother's Keeper, by Sifl Senpai. Its very confusing, but it's hilarious, and it deserves a read – right after you've read this, obviously ; ) Okay, long author notes over…**

**I don't own the Park.**

**Chapter 6**

Wendy Testaburger, almost Marsh, lifted her head and wiped her eyes, smearing the last of her mascara across her face. Her body physically ached from crying, but the tears just kept coming.

She leaned back in her seat, and looked in the mirror. She looked a fright. Her hair had fallen down and hung limply on her shoulders. Her once perfect makeup was streaked across her face. Her dress was dirty and torn from where she'd fallen trying to escape the gas. She looked more like the bride of Chucky than the bride of Stan.

_Oh Stan, where are you?_

Another wave of emotion washed over her as she thought about him. He'd looked so handsome in his suit, she'd felt so lucky to be marrying him. Now she felt like the unluckiest bride in the world.

He wasn't the only one missing, of course. Kyle, Cartman, Kenny and oddly, Butters Stotch were the only other people unaccounted for. Wendy had spent the last few hours in between crying jags racking her brains trying to think of any signs, any strange behaviour over the past few days that might give her a clue as to what had happened to her fiancé, but she couldn't think of anything. Sure, Stan had been a little quieter than usual, but she'd just put that down to wedding nerves. But suddenly, Wendy wasn't so sure anymore. What if Stan had known what was about to happen? _Like you would've listened anyway. You've been so obsessed with this stupid fucking wedding you never even bothered about Stan, even though you knew there was something wrong. _Bile rose in Wendy's throat as she considered that awful thought. Why didn't I listen to him? Just once? Now he might be…

A knock on the door interrupted her self-flagellation.

"Come in," she said quietly.

Her father stepped in. "Wendy, I don't really know if this is a good time, but – the police found these in the pagoda." He held out the wedding rings.

Wendy's eyes filled with tears again. She took them from him and held them as though they were made of glass.

"Thanks."

"The, uh, cops say the gas has cleared now," Mr. Testaburger said, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Good." Wendy stared at the rings.

They stood in silence for a moment, Mr. Testaburger shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as he tried to figure out what to say to his devastated daughter.

"I'm sorry, Wendy," he said eventually.

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes swimming with tears.

"Dad, why are you apologising? You've done nothing wrong."

Now it was his turn to swallow the lump in his throat. How could he tell her about Gregory? How could he tell her that her own father was a complete failure who was about to lose his business, his house, and very possibly, her fiancé? If he ever saw that British bastard again, it would be too soon.

They were both startled by a tap on the door.

"Hello?" A young man with curly blond hair closed the door behind him. "I'm so sorry to intrude. I just wanted to see if you were all right."

Wendy wiped her eyes hurriedly. She didn't like anyone to see her cry, not even Stan.

"I'm okay, thank you," she said, although her voice betrayed her true emotions. "Were you at the wedding? I'm sorry, I don't remember…"

"Gregory Edgerley-Finn," he replied, his eyes twinkling. "I lived in South Park during the American/Canadian war. We were…close."

"Oh my god, Gregory!" Wendy rushed forward and gave him a quick hug. "But, what are you doing here? Did you come with someone?"

"Sadly not," Gregory answered. "Your father invited me. We're business partners now – didn't he tell you?"

Wendy looked quizzically at her father, whose face was stuck somewhere between anger and shock. "No. Dad?"

"I, uh, it must have slipped my mind," he said. He couldn't believe that bastard, coming to see Wendy after what he'd done. What the hell was he playing at?

"I'm so sorry about what happened, Wendy," Gregory said. "If there's anything I can do, anything at all…"

"There isn't, unless you know where Stan is," Wendy said, her eyes filling up again.

That remark caught even the normally cool Gregory slightly off-guard. "Um, no," he mumbled awkwardly. "I'm afraid not."

"No." Wendy held the wedding rings tightly in her fist. "Could you both go now, please? I need some time alone."

The two men nodded and left, Mr. Testaburger squeezing Wendy's shoulder as he walked past. Behind them, Wendy slumped onto the bed and began sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow.

Outside the room, Mr. Testaburger grabbed Gregory by his lapels and slammed him into a tastefully decorated wall.

"Alright, you bastard, I don't know what you're doing, but you get out of here right now!"

"Or what are you going to do?" Gregory asked smugly.

"I-I'll tell Wendy that you're involved in Stan's disappearance because I know you are. I saw you punch out Eric Cartman then help those other two guys to drag him away."

"Hmm, that's a good plan." Gregory seemed to be considering something. "But then, I could tell your family a few choice things about you, too. I could tell them how you're about to lose your home and business. I could tell them about those failed investments. Hell, I could even tell them about my loan. I could tell everyone that you invited me. That wouldn't look good, would it? Some cynical people might even think you were involved in some way. It's no secret that you never had the best relationship with Stan."

"H-How do you know all this?" Mr. Testaburger asked, shocked.

"I always make a point of checking out everyone I have dealings with," Gregory answered. "Perhaps next time, you should do the same. Now, are you going to let go of me before things get even nastier than they already are?"

Mr. Testaburger, still reeling, let him go.

"Thank you," Gregory said, straightening his suit. "And next time you try and manhandle me, please be careful. This suit is from Savile Row, you know."

Mr. Testaburger stepped back, breathing deeply. The urge to pound the smug little shit into the ground was overwhelming. "Just stay the hell away from me and my family."

"Oh, I'll stay away from you," Gregory said. "But I can't say the same about your family." He looked toward Wendy's door, grinning.

Mr. Testaburger turned and walked away before he did something that both he and Gregory would regret. As he left, he heard the Brit call after him:

"See ya, partner."

*

Stan couldn't take much more. Here he was, stuck in an old warehouse, being beaten black and blue while trussed up like a turkey. Hardly a fair fight, was it?

His vision blurred as another blow landed on the side of his head. His friends weren't faring any better, though. Next to him, Kyle groaned in pain, and Cartman grunted as he was hit. Worryingly, Kenny hadn't made any noise for a while.

Stan glared at Trent as he stood in front of him, chewing gum and grinning.

"You think this makes you a big man?" he asked, spitting blood as he spoke. He was pretty sure he'd lost a few teeth.

"No, but it's a helluva lot of fun."

Trent grabbed Stan's right arm and sliced through his shirt and blazer with his switchblade, exposing his bare forearm. He grinned perversely as he dragged the blade through Stan's arm, leaving behind a long red trail.

Stan gave a small cry of pain and gripped the arm of his chair tightly with his other hand. He looked away from Trent and grimaced, trying to hold in the howl of pain that desperately wanted to come out. He was damned if he was going to scream, cry or do anything that would give Trent any more pleasure.

"Zis ees boring," Christophe said, as he punched Kenny almost absentmindedly. Stan was relieved to hear him groan. "Shall we get ze tools?"

"Tools?" Cartman asked, alarmed.

"Yeah, I don't see why not," Trent said. "I've had all the fun I can have with this."

He gave Stan one last slap around the face, which loosened another tooth, then he and Christophe headed for the door.

"Tools? What the hell are they talking about?" Cartman asked again.

"I really don't wanna know," Stan said. "Kyle? Kenny? You guys okay?"

"Yeah," Kyle said. He looked dazed.

"Never better," Kenny said thickly.

"We've gotta get out of here," Stan said, glancing toward the door, which Trent and Christophe had left open. Outside, they could hear laughing and the clink of beer bottles. "Good, they're distracted, which gives us half a chance."

"Half a chance to do what?" Kyle asked, exasperated. "We can't do anything. We're tied up tight."

They looked at each other, then all four looked over at Butters, who lay in the far corner, curled up in the fetal position, sobbing his heart out on the dusty wooden floor.

"Psst!" Stan glanced nervously towards the door. "Butters! _Butters!_" he hissed.

No response.

"Hey, asshole!" Cartman said, slightly louder.

Butters lifted his head, his eyes and nose red and streaming. He looked at them fearfully. "What?"

"We need your help," Stan said urgently. "We need you to untie us. Right now."

"But what about…" Butters left the sentence dangling as he glanced toward the door.

"We've only got one chance, Butters, and its now," Stan said. "When they come back in here, we're screwed."

"No, no I can't," Butters said in a small, scared voice. "They'll kill me."

"They're gonna kill you anyway, dumbass!" Kyle hissed angrily. "You really think they're gonna let you go after everything you've seen?"

"Please, Butters," Stan said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "If you untie us now, we've all got a chance of getting out of this alive."

"Gee, I don't know, fellas," Butters said, clasping his hands together nervously.

"Butters, listen to me," Cartman said. "Do you remember that time when I ate all those chicken skins and I thought I was dead because everyone was ignoring me?"

"Yeah?"

"You had a pretty bad time, didn't you?" Cartman continued. "Well imagine what it would be like if I really was dead! I promise you, I'll haunt your ass until the day you die, then drag you into hell myself." He leaned back in his chair. "Take a second and think about it, B."

Stan couldn't help but grudgingly admire Cartman. Even though he hated the way the fatass treated people, he was secretly impressed by the way Cartman could still coldly manipulate someone, even in a life or death situation.

Butters got to his feet and dusted himself down. He watched a cloud of cigarette smoke drift in through the open door. Then he turned back to his friends.

"Alright," he said determinedly. "I'll help you."

**Okay, that's chapter 6 – please read and…ah, you know it by now!**

**Chapter 7 up soon…**


	7. Chapter 7

**Revenge Áu Tróis**

**Many thanks for your reviews, I hope you're enjoying the fic – and there aren't too many gaping plotholes…**

**Are there any other fanfic writers on Twitter? I am, although don't worry, I'm not advertising for friends or anything ******

**I don't own South Park – the very sexy Matt and Trey do. Yes, I so would.**

**Chapter 7**

Stan pushed the last of the rope off his ankles and stood up. He stretched his legs to get the blood flowing back to them – the rope had been tied so tight it had almost cut off his circulation – and looked up at the others.

"A'ight," he said. "Let's do this. Butters, is there another way out of here?"

"Nope. That's the only door." Butters nodded towards the warehouse's open front door.

"Okay." Stan shrugged. "So we go out the front door."

"What?!" Kyle said loudly, making them all jump. "Are you insane?" he added more quietly, after a nervous glance at the open door.

"Look, there's no other way, Kyle," Stan said impatiently. "Do you see another door, cos I don't!"

Kyle opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was no point arguing with Stan when he was in this kind of mood.

Stan looked around at his friends, who were all gawping at him. He wanted to shake them. Didn't they see the gravity of the situation? They could very possibly die, and Gregory was alone with a vulnerable Wendy. He needed to get out of here, now.

"All we need is some kind of weapon," he said encouragingly.

"How about that?" Cartman asked, pointing to the La Resistance flag. "That pole looks like it could do some damage."

"It'll have to do."

Cartman tiptoed over to the flag, tore the sheet off and dropped it, sending up a cloud of dust. He nodded to the others, brandished the pole and headed for the door. The other four bunched up behind his considerable bulk, each one hardly daring to breathe as they made their way slowly towards the door. Stan's heartbeat quickened with every creak of the floorboards. When they reached the door, Cartman held his hand up. The others stopped, their hearts in their mouths. Outside, they could hear voices.

"Okay, I think we've let them stew for long enough," Trent said. "Let's finish the job."

"All right," Christophe replied. "But first I 'ave to – 'ow you say? – take a leak."

Cartman chanced a quick look round the door. Christophe was heading across the street towards a building on the other side. Trent stood just a couple of feet away with his back to the door and his hands on his hips. A large black case lay at his feet. The green Chevy was parked nearby. Cartman popped his head back in, gave the others an 'okay' gesture, then, gripping the pole firmly in both hands, he stepped through the door and stood directly behind Trent, who was now crouching over the case.

Stan held his breath as Cartman raised the pole above his head. Behind him, he could hear Butters mumbling to himself:

"Oh Mary, mother of Jesus, wife of Joseph…"

His rambling attempt at a prayer was interrupted by Cartman bringing the pole down with a sickening thud onto the top of Trent's head. He flopped to the floor without a sound, blood oozing into his thick blond hair. Cartman hurried toward the Chevy, beckoning to the others. They followed him quickly, each one stepping carefully over Trent's prostate body – apart from Kenny, who gave him a quick kick in the nuts as he stepped over.

Stan glanced back at Christophe. He was peeing up against the front of an old building that Stan knew but couldn't name, blissfully unaware of what was going on behind him. Something irked Stan about that whole picture. Sure, the building was disused, nobody had probably set foot in it for years, but that was still a part of South Park Christophe was pissing on. Not that there was anybody around to notice, or care. Not anymore.

Cartman tried the door of the Chevy, which was, miraculously, unlocked. It creaked as it popped open. Stan sighed as he slid in the back, next to Butters and Kenny. Maybe their luck was finally starting to change. Cartman slammed the driver's door loudly.

"Goddamit, Cartman!" Kyle cried. "Christophe's only over – "

"Sheet!"

Stan looked out of the rear window. Christophe was half running, half staggering towards the car, fumbling in his jacket pocket while simultaneously trying to do up his fly. "Go dude!" he yelled at Cartman.

"Don't worry, guys, we are outta here, uh…soon…" He scrabbled around, opening the glove box and feeling under his seat.

"What's the problem?" Stan asked urgently.

"The keys aren't in here!" Cartman shouted, frustrated. "I can't start the fucking thing!"

"Can't you just hotwire it or something?" Stan glanced outside again. Christophe had managed to do his fly up, and was back inside his jacket again. Stan almost turned to stone at what came out. "Hurry up, he's got a gun!"

"I don't know how to hotwire a car!" Cartman shouted.

They all ducked as a loud bang went off behind them, and a small hole appeared in the rear window, right where Stan's head had just been.

"You've committed every crime under the sun, and you don't know how to hotwire a car!" Kyle yelled, ducking even further as a bullet whizzed past his left ear.

"Sorry, Jew, we didn't learn hotwiring in Crime Lab 101!" Cartman yelled back.

Butters screamed as he was showered with glass from the rear windscreen, which was just about to collapse in on itself.

"All right, change of plan!" Stan shouted. "Everybody out!"

They piled out the car, still ducking bullets.

"Freeze, beetches!"

Butters stopped. Stan grabbed his arm and dragged him along behind him.

"But he said – " Butters began.

"Fuck that! Just keep moving!"

Bullets sliced through the air around them as they sprinted up Main Street. There was only one thought going through Stan's mind as he ran. _Don't stop, not even if you get hit. I'd rather have a body riddled with bullets than end up back in that warehouse_. Almost as soon as Stan had thought this, it was over. A bullet hit the pavement near his right foot and then…nothing. Stan looked behind him, and saw Christophe slow to a stop, still pulling the trigger on the now useless gun. He grinned to himself as they continued to pound along the street. They'd actually done it – they'd escaped! He flipped Christophe off. Suck on that, you French bastard!

Christophe stood, panting, and watched them disappear. He was suddenly hit by panic and indecision. Escape hadn't been part of The Plan, and without The Plan, Christophe was lost. He wanted to go after them, but all the guns and ammo were in the car – and anyway, five against one weren't great odds, even with his fighting skills.

He swore under his breath and ran back to the car, discarding the useless handgun on the way. Trent was just beginning to stir as he popped the trunk. The Yank groaned and lifted his head slowly. Christophe glared at him.

"Get up, beetch," he said as he pulled a couple of hunting rifles out of the trunk.

_Okay, so things are bad now,_ the mercenary thought as he searched for ammo. _But at least they can't get any worse._

He had just found a box of ammo when his mobile phone rang. He finally located it in one of his many pockets, and in horror when he saw the caller ID. He shut his eyes and silently cursed the God he so despised.

Things just got worse.

*

"Knock, knock!" Gregory said cheerfully as he backed into Wendy's room, trying to balance a large tray laden down with teapot, teacups, saucers and other teamaking paraphanelia. "I thought you might like some tea."

Wendy stared at him, nonplussed. What the hell was it with English people and their obsession with tea? Was that their solution to everything? "Darling, the world's about to end." "Oh dear. Shall we have some tea?" Freaks.

"I'm fine, thanks," she said.

"Wendy, darling, when was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?"

Wendy shrugged.

"Exactly. You need to keep your strength up." Gregory set the tray down on the dressing table. "What would Stan say if he knew?"

Wendy shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay. Fine."

Gregory set the tray down, smiling, and poured out the tea.

"Wendy, there's something you should know," he said, handing her a cup. "I know this whole thing is none of my business, but I've asked some of my men to look into Stan's disappearance. You're not mad, are you?"

Wendy nearly dropped her cup. "Why would I be mad? Gregory, that's just…I…thank you!"

"If anyone can find Stan, they can." Gregory sipped his tea. "In fact, why don't I go and call my man in charge, Chris, and see what's happening?"

"Would you?"

"Of course." He put his cup down and got up. "And don't worry. Everything's going to be fine."

He smiled at her and left the room. Leaning against the wall outside, he scrolled though the contacts in his phone until he found Christophe. He hit 'Call' and tapped his foot impatiently as it rang. And rang. And rang. He swore quietly as it went to voicemail.

"Christophe, it's me," he said. "I don't know what you're doing, and quite frankly I don't want to know, but everything's sorted my end, so finish it. That's an order, Chris. Finish it now."

Gregory's temper began to flare as he disconnected. Why did that French twat never answer his phone?

"Gregory? What's happening?"

He spun, startled. Wendy stood in the doorway, her hazel eyes wide and hopeful.

"Oh, er, Wendy!" He plastered a smile onto his face. "No news as yet, I'm afraid!"

"Oh." She looked downcast.

"Don't worry," Gregory said quickly. "You know what they say: no news is good news. Don't lose hope. It'll all be fine."

_Oh yeah. Everything's just fucking fine._

*

Trent groaned as he hauled himself to his feet, holding onto the Chevy for support. He felt the back of his head and winced.

"Dammit. The bastards made me bleed." He looked at Christophe, who was listening to his phone, a concerned look on his face. "Who's that?"

"Eet was Gregory." Christophe flipped his phone shut. "Ee wants zem killed."

"Yeah, well that might be a little difficult since you let them get away."

Christophe looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Me?"

"Yeah." Trent walked to the open trunk and reached inside. "You left your little fuck-buddy in there with 'em. I told you to kill him."

Christophe looked affronted. "I was not ze one who was taken from behind. But, I suppose you are used to zat, 'aving been in prison."

Trent paused and looked up at him, holding the two rifles Christophe had dropped. "What are you sayin' to me?" he asked fiercely.

Christophe rolled his eyes. "Look, we do not ave time for zis. We ave to find zem and kill zem. If Gregory were to find out we had lost zem…" His voice trailed off, and he stared at the ground.

Trent watched him, and smiled with derision. Was the big tough mercenary actually scared of _Gregory_? "So what if he does. Tell him to fuck off."

"Eet ees not zat simple," Christophe said. "Ee ees more powerful zan you know." He shook his head quickly. "Come on, beetch. We are wasting valuable time."

Trent threw him a rifle. "Alright then. Let's go huntin'."

**Well that's chapter 7, please review, reviews are always welcome!**

**Chapter 8 up soon…**


	8. Chapter 8

**Revenge Áu Tróis**

**So here we are, chapter 8. Damn, this is one of the longest stories I've ever written.**

**This chapter only features Our Boys – more Trent/Christophe and Gregory/Wendy action to come later!**

**I don't own South Park – just Matt Stone (kidding!)…props to Angelic Guardian!**

**Chapter 8**

Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny and Butters kept running, Stan leading the way. Instinctively, he turned and ran down a street that was all too familiar to him – it was the street where he used to live. He slowed to a walk, nostalgia washing over him as he gazed around at the place he'd called home for sixteen years. It looked nothing like he remembered – but then, none of South Park did.

"Hey, where's Cartman?" Kyle's voice cut into his thoughts.

They turned and looked back. Cartman sat slumped on the kerb, sweat pouring off his face, which was heart attack red.

"Come on, dude, we gotta keep moving," Stan said.

"Can't…run…anymore…" Cartman panted.

"Cartman, we've only run like, two blocks," Kyle said scornfully.

"Screw…you…Jew…"

"Come on, fatass," Kenny said, grabbing Cartman under the shoulders. With Butters' help, he hauled his large friend to his feet and slowly they began to walk, Kenny and Butters holding onto Cartman as he swayed about almost drunkenly.

"Man, its weird being back here after everything that's happened," Kyle said, looking around.

"You're telling me," Stan said quietly.

There was only one way to describe South Park now – a ghost town. And it was all Cartman's fault, as most things were. Three years previously, Cartman's anal probe had suddenly and inexplicably reactivated: no hints, no warnings, nothing. One minute he was smoking pot at Stark's Pond with his mates, the next minute he had a large hole in his jeans and an 80ft satellite sticking out of his arse. Once out, it had beamed a signal into space, and then disappeared back inside a disbelieving Cartman again. Barely half an hour later, a vast alien fleet arrived, blocking out the sky above the small mountain town. Most of the townspeople, including Stan and his friends, fled right before they opened fire. The ones that decided to stay behind and sit it out were destroyed, along with most of the town.

The survivors descended on towns and cities across America, seeking help and shelter, and by the time the alien fleet had been fought off by the armed forces, they were too settled in their new lives to go back. Some even said South Park was cursed and refused to go. So the town, or what was left of it, was abandoned and left to rot.

Stan stood in front of the ruins of his childhood home, a lump forming in his throat. All that was left was a pile of bricks and rubble. One wall was still standing, and ivy and other climbing plants snaked up the side. The grass was nearly waist height and had completely obliterated the driveway.

In fact, nature had begun to reclaim the whole of South Park. Stan had seen trees growing through the tarmac in the roads, raccoons running through the grass, and even a couple of deer wandering through the abandoned gardens. But what freaked him out more than any of that was the silence. It was almost otherworldly. It almost made him feel afraid to speak.

"What do we do now?" Kyle asked suddenly.

"I don't know," Stan said distractedly. He gave himself a mental shake. _Come on. Snap out of it. Wendy needs you. _"It's getting dark. I guess we should look for shelter."

"Shelter?" Kyle looked around at the decimated town. "Where the hell are we gonna find shelter?"

"I dunno!" Stan said irritably. "But we gotta find somewhere, unless you wanna stay out here and freeze to death." He pulled his suit jacket tighter around him, for what good it did. The temperature was plummeting fast. Not for the first time, he wished he had his trusty red and blue poofball hat and brown coat.

"For what it's worth, I'd rather freeze than experience death by Trent," Kenny said.

"What's it matter to you?" Cartman asked. He had pretty much fully recovered from his little drama. "You're gonna come back whatever happens!"

"I'm just saying!" Kenny said defensively.

"Guys, come on!" Stan said. "Let's keep going. There must be somewhere we can hide out."

They set off again, walking quickly and bunching close together – partly because of the cold, partly through fear.

"We could go to mine," Cartman said after a few moments of silence. "My house is still standing."

"You don't have to say it with a smile on your face, Cartman!" Kenny said irritably.

"Wait, how do you know your house is still standing?" Stan demanded.

"Well, I, uh…" Cartman ran a hand through his hair self consciously. "This isn't the first time I've been back here. I like to come back sometimes, just to…sit."

"Sit?" Butters asked, amused.

"Yeah, I like to sit!" Cartman shouted, glaring at him. "I miss South Park, okay! Geez, why don't you just cut me and watch me bleed!" Embarrassed, he shoved past the others and strode on ahead.

"I know what you mean," Kenny said. "I miss the old place, too."

"Really?" Stan stared at him. "Ken, you haven't died since we left South Park!"

"I know!" Kenny said, his eyes wide. "I gotta tell ya, it's _weird_. Life without death is just plain freaky."

They turned around and headed toward Cartman's house in silence, letting these latest revelations sink in. Stan was amazed. He'd assumed he was the only one struggling to adapt to life outside South Park, but two of his closest friends were struggling, too? It just goes to show you don't really know anyone, he thought.

"Stan, can I talk to you for a minute?" Kyle asked from behind him.

Stan dropped back to walk with him. "What's up, dude?" he asked.

"I was just wondering, supposing we somehow survive the night without being discovered, or freezing to death, what are we gonna do then?" Kyle asked. "I mean, our situation isn't great: we've got no phones, we can't start the only car in this whole goddamn place, and the only other people here are trying to kill us. Any thoughts?"

"What do you want me to say?" Stan asked, shrugging.

"Well, I just thought you'd know what to do. You're always the man with the plan, Stan," Kyle said sarcastically.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"For the last few weeks, I've done everything you asked!" Kyle said loudly. "I helped you organise the wedding, and I've taken all of Wendy's crap, even when she seriously needed her ass kicking! And where's it got me? Being chased around our old town by two frickin' psychos, that's where!"

Stan stopped and stared at him, openmouthed. "So what, you're blaming me for this?"

"I'm just saying if it wasn't for your goddamn wedding, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Stan shook his head, to stunned to even speak for a moment. "You're an asshole, Kyle," he said eventually.

"Finally, he sees the light!" Cartman said joyfully.

Now it was Kyle's turn to look stunned. Stan had never insulted him before, not even during their really bad fights.

"You've been a dick to me for months," Stan said, his voice low and harsh. "And yeah, it pissed me off but I ignored it because that's what friends do. But you know what? I am sick of being made to feel like I've done something wrong. I don't know what your problem is, and I don't care. So in conclusion – screw you, Kyle."

He turned and stalked off without looking back at his Super Best Friend.

Kyle, realising he'd pushed Stan too far, jogged after him. "Stan, wait – "

"We're done, Kyle."

The group carried on down the street, Stan leading the way at the front, and Kyle walking sulkily at the rear.

"He has got a point, though," Kenny said quietly, nodding toward Kyle. "If they find us, we've got no chance."

"So we tool up," Cartman said.

"Tool up? What the hell with?" Kenny asked incredulously.

Cartman grinned. "Follow me, everyone."

Five minutes later, they resumed their journey, clutching a series of improvised weapons. Cartman still had his flagpole, Stan had a length of drainpipe, Kyle had a plank of wood with a nasty looking nail in the top, and Butters had a dustbin lid that he swang merrily as he walked. Kenny had nothing, mainly because any weapon, no matter how small, tended to backfire on him.

Looking at his drainpipe, which was starting to come apart at the top, Stan couldn't help but marvel at Cartman's ability to turn the most ordinary, everyday items into weapons of mass destruction.

After a few detours – to avoid bumping into Trent or Christophe (or both) – they reached Cartman's old house, which looked pretty much the same as Stan remembered on the outside, but dark and foreboding inside. He shivered as they waded through the overgrown lawn to the front door. The sun was disappearing fast behind the mountains, casting long, dark shadows over the small town.

They had almost reached the front door when wild boar shot past them from the back garden. Butters squealed in alarm.

"Eww! Pig-rat!" he cried.

"Goddamit Butters, shut your fucking mouth!" Stan hissed angrily, glancing around nervously as though Trent or Christophe were hiding behind the nearest bush. _Geez, paranoid much?_

He jumped at a loud bang in front of him, as Cartman attempted to shoulder charge the door. He swore and held his shoulder as he bounced back off it. He tried again. Again, the door didn't budge.

"Dude, keep trying!" Kenny urged as Cartman collapsed to his knees in pain.

"He could try using his head," Kyle said. "I don't think he'd feel much – huh, Stan?"

He looked at Stan hopefully and chuckled. Stan just stared at him coldly.

Cartman got to his feet, muttering something about a "fucking smartass Jewrat". He took a deep breath and glared at the door, then he ran at it full pelt. The offending door almost came off its hinges as it flew open. Cartman collapsed in the middle of the hallway, winded.

"Dude, sweet," Kenny said as he went inside.

The others followed, Butters shutting the busted door as best he could. They stood for a moment, looking around at the dark and dusty house. Cartman clambered to his feet, holding his side.

"Okay, so we're in the house, finally," Stan said, rolling his eyes. "Now what?"

"Now, you all shut your freakin' mouths and listen to me," Cartman replied. He grinned in a way that made Stan feel extremely worried. "I think I know how to get you candy-asses out of this. I've got an idea."

**Okay, that's chapter 8! It isn't the best chapter, but please review anyway!**

**Chapter 9 up soon…**


	9. Chapter 9

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Many thanks for all your reviews, as usual. I notice that all of you are backing Kyle in The Argument. Well, I'm on Stan's side – maybe it's just cos I'm writing mainly as him, I don't know. Anyway, this chapter should appease all Kyle fans. Enjoy!**

**xxxBlack Rosexxx – where are you? I miss ya!**

**I don't own South Park – or Trey Parker XD**

**Chapter 9**

Christophe was pissed. Not only because those five bastards had managed to get away, but also because it was nearly midnight and he hadn't found one trace of them. He thought about calling Trent, then decided against it. They had both agreed that they would only call if there was anything to report.

He sighed with frustration. He badly needed a cigarette, or at least some nicotine gum to get him through the next few hours. He patted his pockets hopefully, but came up empty handed. He swore in French. Now he was going to be uptight and on edge for the rest of the night.

Gregory had been trying to wean him off smoking for months, telling him that it would "ruin your health", and "I need you at the top of your game, Chris". Never mind that the gum tasted like crap, and it didn't give Christophe nearly enough of the nicotine rush he craved. But that was Gregory: always meddling, always trying – in Christophe's eyes – to find a way to demoralise him further.

Smoking was the one pleasure in his otherwise empty life, and now Gregory was trying to take that away from him? Christophe scowled. Gregory, with his mild OCD and macrobiotic diet, had no idea what it was like to be him. He was just a handler, he'd never travelled through a war torn country like Christophe had, he had never survived on rainwater and tree bark in a jungle.

Yet Christophe still feared him. You were either Gregory's friend or his enemy, there was no in-between. Once you threw your lot in with him that was it. Christophe likened it to selling your soul to Satan. If you did as he asked, Gregory would look after you and pay you well. If you didn't, he would slit your throat without blinking.

Christophe kicked open another door of yet another abandoned building in nicotine starved annoyance and stepped carefully inside, aiming his rifle at the darkened corners. He didn't think they were in here – half the roof had caved in – but this was no time to be sloppy. Every nook and cranny had to be checked. The only thing he was sure of was that they were still in South Park. To head for the highway would be pointless, as no cars or trucks had used it since the town had been abandoned, and to go to the mountains would be suicide. Christophe smiled grimly as he kicked rubble out of the way. _No, they're still here, all right._

He left the building and headed for an old shop next door, which looked intact from the outside. _I'm going to find them, and I'm going to kill them. I might even let Trent help if he gets here in time. One bullet for each of them. But not Butters. Oh no, I've got something special in mind for him. _He smiled as he thought about his former lover, who'd betrayed him so badly. _And just when I was thinking about letting him live._

Christophe didn't regard himself as being naturally homosexual. It was more of a necessity than an orientation. Well, when you're stuck in somewhere like the Congo for six months with just two other guys for company, what else are you supposed to do? Besides, he hated women, who to him, all seemed to be like his much loathed mother. He was pretty sure God had created women just to piss him off.

He sighed again as yet another building turned up sweet FA, and crossed the road to yet another abandoned property in this godforsaken ghost town, to continue the most bizarre game of hide and seek he had ever played.

*

Stan sneezed and sat up, blinking, and looked around the darkened room. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was, then the full horror of the day began to come back to him. He groaned and leant his head against the back of the armchair he was sitting in. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the crick in his neck and the dust up his nose told him he had.

He glanced out of the window. It was beginning to get light outside, which could only be a good thing. _Maybe we'll survive the night after all._

He just hoped Cartman's plan worked. Sometimes Cartman's ideas were a resounding success, other times they just got them into even more trouble.

Stan felt something running down his right arm and pulled what remained of his sleeve back. The cut that Trent had inflicted earlier was bleeding again. He removed the gold tie that Wendy had picked out so carefully and tried to tie it around the wound.

Kyle wandered in from the kitchen.

"Oh, hey, you're awake!" he said. "Butters and Kenny are on watch upstairs, and Cartman is…actually, I don't know where Cartman is."

Stan ignored him and continued trying to fasten his tie around his injured wrist one handed.

Kyle sighed. "Stan, how long are you gonna keep this up for?" he asked wearily.

Stan had been resolutely ignoring him ever since their argument in the street – even the few hours they'd spent on lookout duty had been spent in stony silence.

"I've said I'm sorry, like, a hundred times," Kyle tried again.

Still no response.

Seeing Stan struggling, Kyle unknotted his own tie. He took Stan's from him and tied them both round his bleeding arm.

"Thanks," Stan said grudgingly.

"No problem." Kyle sat on the arm of Stan's chair. "You know, if you're hungry, there are some fossilised Hershey's Bars in the kitchen."

"No thanks."

They sat for a few minutes in silence, Kyle shifting positions on the uncomfortable chair arm. Maybe it was about time he explained a few things to Stan, and if he continued to act like a jerk, fuck him.

"Stan, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry if I upset you earlier, and I'm sorry for the way I've been acting recently. I know I haven't been the easiest person to be around, but then, neither have you."

Stan nodded.

"I'll admit, this whole thing with the wedding was getting to me," Kyle continued. "But I only acted the way I did because I was…scared." He coughed awkwardly.

Stan stared at him. "Scared? Of what?"

"Of you getting married," Kyle said. He looked ashamed. "I thought once you'd settled into your new, oh-so-perfect married life, you wouldn't want me around anymore. I thought you'd forget about me – which I realise now is both gay and lame."

"Dude, you're my best friend. I'd never forget about you."

"Not even if Wendy told you to?" Kyle asked spitefully.

"Look, I know she's been a little difficult lately – "Stan began.

Kyle's eyebrows shot up. "Difficult? That's what you call it?"

"Okay, im –fucking-possible. How's that?" Stan shook his head and smiled wryly. "Trust me, I had no idea she was gonna turn into a monster the second I put an engagement ring on her finger!"

"Damn Stan, how naïve are you?" Kyle asked mockingly.

They both laughed, the tension between them evaporating.

"You know, I thought it was because you didn't like her," Stan said. "And then Cartman said…" He shut his mouth, cursing himself.

"And then Cartman said what?" Kyle asked warily.

"Well, y'know, Cartman says a lot of things," Stan said quickly. "A lot of things that aren't worth repeating!"

"Stan?!"

Stan sighed. Kyle wasn't about to let this go, he knew only too well how his friend thought. Kyle would never let anything go where Cartman was concerned.

"Okay, look," Stan said. "Cartman said you were acting like a bitch because you were jealous. He said – "

"He said I was gay," Kyle said in a dull monotone.

"Yeah. And I said that was ridiculous."

Kyle was silent for a moment. He stared at the floor, as though contemplating something. Stan felt uneasy. Kyle should be ranting and raving by now and calling Cartman a "stupid bigoted fucking fatass", like he always did.

"Why would you say it's ridiculous?" he asked suddenly. "Would it bother you if I was?"

"No, of course not!" Stan said, flustered. "It's just that ever since Cartman started it, you've been denying it. So, are you saying he's right?"

"I don't know," Kyle answered. "I mean, up until a couple of weeks ago I was sure I wasn't, but…" He took a deep, steadying breath. "There's this guy who works with me at the store called Federico – we're pretty good friends, you know? So one night, we all went out to this club and, I don't know whether it was the drink or what, but – I kissed him." He stared at his hands. "There was this part of me that was horrified, disgusted…then there was this other part that enjoyed it. I-I was so sure about what I was; now I have no idea what I am anymore."

Stan was completely and utterly stunned. "Okay," he said. _Okay? That's it? Your best friend has just revealed that he's sexually confused and all you can say is "okay"?_

"So, uh," Stan began, trying to sound as unweirded out as possible, "this Federico. Is he gay?"

"Yeah. He keeps texting me but I never read them. I just delete them."

"Well, if you like this guy – "

"Can you imagine what Cartman would say?" Kyle interrupted angrily. "Do you have any idea what he'd be like if I proved him right?"

"Forget Cartman!" Stan said loudly. "This is about you, not him! If you like this Federico guy, go for it! Fuck Cartman!" He winced at the unfortunate choice of words.

Kyle rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I don't know what I want," he said softly.

Stan suddenly felt very protective towards his friend. No wonder he hadn't wanted to tell anyone about his dilemma. He put an arm around the redhead.

"It's okay, Ky," he said gently. "Whatever you decide, you've got my support."

"Thanks dude," Kyle said gratefully. He exhaled deeply. He felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

There was an indiscreet cough from the doorway. Both men jumped and turned round. Cartman grinned at them.

"Sorry to interrupt this Hallmark moment," he said sarcastically. "But Kenny and Butters have just spotted that French faggot Christophe nearby." He stared at them, aware that he'd obviously missed something. "What?"

"How long have you been there?" Kyle snapped.

"Only about two seconds, Daywalker!" Cartman said, confused. "Geez, who put sand in your vagina?"

"So, you said Christophe's close?" Stan said, trying to refocus on their current problem.

"Yeah," Cartman said, grinning evilly. "It's time, boys. We are about to commence Operation Get The Fuck Outta Here!"

**And next chapter, ze plan – which is worth waiting for, lemme tell you!**

**Chapter 10 up soon…**


	10. Chapter 10

**Revenge ****Àu Tròis**

**Thank you for your reviews, I love you all!**

**This chapter is The Boys vs Christophe – who will win? Read on to find out…**

**Sadly, I don't own South Park. Boo.**

**Chapter 10**

Christophe wandered along what had once been a quiet residential street, his rifle dangling at his side. His head was aching, not just from sleep deprivation – he was used to that – but from sheer frustration, and nicotine withdrawal. He had walked every street on the east side of South Park, trawled through every remaining building, and now he was on the last one.

Maybe they weren't there; maybe they were on Trent's side. God help them if Trent found them first, at least if he, Christophe found them, it would be quick. _Ha, God, _he thought with a sardonic smile. _You desert me again, you inglorious bastard._

He jumped as something hurtled past him, and grappled with his rifle. He aimed it at the thing, which turned out to be a young deer. He watched it bolt away, his finger hovering over the trigger. After a little thought, he lowered the gun. No, he couldn't shoot something so untamed and graceful. It would be like shooting himself.

He felt his phone vibrate in one of his pockets and pulled it out, scowling. He didn't even have to look at the screen, he knew who it was. He hit a button and the screen lit up, confirming his worst suspicions. He rolled his eyes. Yet another text from Gregory, to join the other seven already in his inbox, each one more agitated and threatening than the last. He deleted it without bothering to read it and tucked the phone away again. Thank God he only had one bar of battery left, although he didn't like to think what the Brit would do if he could no longer contact him.

Christophe was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of a dustbin crashing to the ground a couple of houses down from him. The metallic crash sounded almost unreal in the claustrophobic silence. It could just be a raccoon, or…Christophe gripped the rifle tightly and walked toward the house, his excitement building with each step. Was his long, fruitless search about to end?

He stopped in front of the house, which was light green in colour and had probably been quite smart and well looked after once. Now the paint was peeling and the house looked dilapidated and sorry for itself.

Christophe walked across the front lawn, thistles and other weeds grabbing at his khaki combats. The overturned dustbin lay in front of the door, almost pointing the way in. He stopped and frowned. Something about this didn't feel right. Why make such a stupid mistake now? He stared accusingly at the dustbin. This all felt far too convenient. What was it about him being the hunter and them being the hunted?

His phone buzzed again. He ignored it and chewed his lip anxiously. Maybe he was just being paranoid – after all, he hadn't had a cigarette for hours. Maybe this was just a coincidence, and if it wasn't, well, he would just have to deal with it. _Come on, what are you? A mercenary or a pussy?_

Decision made, he stepped around the dustbin and gave the front door a nudge with his Army issue boot. It had clearly been forced, which was a good sign. Christophe walked slowly into the hallway and stopped almost in surprise. Butters sat on the stairs, quivering. Curiously, he held a dustbin lid in his shaking hands.

"Hey, Christophe!" he quavered. "L-Long time, n-no see!"

"Butters," Christophe growled. He smiled nastily. "Where are ze others?"

"I don't know, I swear!" Butters cried, holding the dustbin lid like a shield.

Christophe pointed the gun at the blond haired boy's chest. "Do you know 'ow many people ave betrayed me and leeved?" he asked.

"Uh, six?"

"Non. Ze answer is none. And you will shortly be joining zat leest. Come down ere, Butters." Christophe beckoned to him with the gun.

Butters stood up.

"Sit down, Butters, you're not going anywhere!" a voice said.

Butters sat down.

Christophe whirled in the direction of the voice. Stan stood in the doorway of the dining room, a length of pipe in his hand. He smiled at the mercenary.

"Actually, you're not going anywhere either, Chrissie," another voice said.

Christophe turned. Cartman stood opposite Stan, in the lounge doorway, tapping a metal pole menacingly into his open hand.

"Cos we got you surrounded," someone else said.

Christophe turned again. Kenny had snuck in through the front door, which he kicked shut. He held a broken bottle, which he smashed against the wall. He pointed it at the Frenchman, smiling evilly.

"So what's it gonna be, Christophe?" Kyle asked, walking in from the kitchen. He stood next to the staircase, brandishing a plank of wood with a rusty nail in the top.

"What do you want?" Christophe asked. He watched them all carefully, weighing up his options.

"The keys to the Chevy," Kyle replied. "Give us the keys and we won't hurt you. Too much."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we'll beat the crap out of you and take them anyway," Cartman answered casually.

"Do you really zink it will be zat easy?" Christophe asked, raising his rifle.

"Oh, come on, dude," Stan said scathingly. "There's five of us and one of you. Even if you did manage to shoot one of us, the other four'd be on top of you in seconds. Our weapons might not look much, but I bet they could do some damage."

Christophe didn't reply. They clearly had him rattled. He moved almost hyperactively as he tried to watch all of them, wary of any sudden movement. His brown eyes bulged fearfully. He had the look of a cornered animal facing its last fight. Stan gripped his weapon tightly and stood poised on his toes, waiting. _Come on you bastard. You know you want it._

Kyle held out his hand. "Last chance. Keys."

"Non." Christophe glared at each one of his captors. He still had his gun, which in his mind was a major advantage, even if there were more of them. Besides, if he was to let them get away a second time, he might as well hand his balls to Gregory on a plate.

"Okay, buddy, it's your funeral," Cartman said.

He swang his pole without warning, aiming for the mercenary's stomach, but Christophe dodged expertly and applied a hard kick to Cartman's chest. He fell back into the wall, winded. Kenny was next to try his luck. He ran at Christophe, slashing at him with the broken bottle. Christophe dodged that easily, and punched Kenny in the back of the head as his momentum carried him past. He crashed into Kyle and both men fell, Kyle hitting his head on the kitchen doorframe as he went down.

That left Stan and Butters. Stan's eyes widened with horror as Christophe spun around and aimed the gun at him, a bloodthirsty look in his eyes.

"Zat was even easier zan I thought. Goodbye, Marsh."

Stan stood, powerless, as Christophe put his finger on the trigger. He felt as helpless as he had on his stag night, when Trent had driven straight at him and Cartman. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Stan spotted something moving very fast towards the mercenary's legs. A pole, in fact, swung so hard it took Christophe's legs out from under him. He hit the floor and the gun flew out of his grasp, landing at the bottom of the staircase. Both he and Butters, who was still cowering on the stairs, stared at it in horror.

"Quick, Butters! Grab it!" Stan shouted as his friend froze.

Butters regained his senses and flew down the stairs toward the gun, just as Christophe made a desperate dive for it. They reached it together and grabbed it at the same time, Butters' small, pale hand almost touching Christophe's dirty one.

Stan's heart was in his mouth. If Butters let go of that gun, they were all dead. Cartman staggered to his feet, holding his chest.

"Just take the goddamn gun, Butters," he growled, wincing as he leaned on the pole for support.

"I…I…" Butters looked at Cartman, then Christophe.

Stan realised that this was probably going to come down to who Butters feared more._ Come on Butters, just do it. Find that little bit of courage._

Christophe glared ferociously at Butters, who instinctively recoiled, one hand still on the gun. Stan was never quite sure what happened next – perhaps it was a defence mechanism, or just sheer, blind panic – but Butters swung the dustbin lid toward Christophe. It hit him square on the jaw, knocking him off his feet. He flew at least a couple of feet backwards and hit his head on the corner of a small table nearby, before landing on the floor in a heap, blood dribbling out of his mouth. Butters stood, openmouthed, staring at the unconscious Christophe. He started shaking uncontrollably and dropped the gun.

Stan whistled appreciatively. "Damn, Butters. Nice one."

Cartman simply raised his eyebrows.

"I-Is he dead?" Butters stammered.

"Nah, just unconscious," Stan answered. He started rifling through Christophe's many pockets.

There was a groan from the kitchen doorway. Kenny stood up and helped a dazed looking Kyle to his feet.

"Is everybody okay?" Kyle asked, rubbing the back of his head.

"Everybody except Christophe," Cartman replied, nodding toward the insensible mercenary.

"Damn, who did that?" Kenny asked admiringly.

"We'll tell ya later," Stan said. "Right now – I've found something."

"Car keys?"

"Even better. Cellphone." Stan held up the small black phone triumphantly.

Cartman tried to swipe it from him but he dodged and walked away, scrolling through Christophe's contacts. He smiled when he found the name he was looking for, and hit 'Call'.

"Who are you calling?" Kyle asked. "Wendy? The cops?"

Stan ignored him and waited impatiently for an answer on the other end of the phone. After a few more rings, it went to voicemail.

"Hello, Gregory? Yeah, it's me. You thought I was dead, didn't you," Stan said, his insides pulsating with anger. "I'm coming for you Greg. We're all coming for you. So you get the hell away from Wendy. I mean it, Gregory. If you're still there when I get back, I'll kill you. You hear me? I will kill you."

Stan disconnected, breathing deeply. He'd never threatened anyone before, and he didn't like the feeling it gave him. He glanced at the phone again, and horror began to replace anger. It was lifeless, dead. He hit a few buttons in desperation. _No, no, no. Don't do this to me. Not now._

"What the hell did you just call Gregory for!?" Cartman shouted in disbelief. "This is no time for a dick measuring contest, Stan!" He stared at his mute friend. "Well don't just stand there! Call the cops or something!"

"Love to. Can't."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Battery's dead." Stan's voice was barely audible.

The others stared at him, dumbfounded.

"You asshole!" Cartman roared, smacking him round the head.

"Whoa, hang on. Lemme get this straight," Kenny said slowly. "You just called Gregory."

"Yeah."

"So he's gonna know that we're free."

"Yeah."

"So he's probably gonna be sending reinforcements right about now."

"Yep."

Kenny paused. "You asshole!"

He shook his head. Stan was supposed to be the sensible one, the one they turned to in a crisis. Stupidity was not his forté. If Stan had lost his head, they were all fucked.

"So, what does this mean, fellas?" Butters, who was, as usual five minutes behind everybody else, asked.

"It means that unless Gregory doesn't ever bother to listen to his voicemails, we're screwed," Stan said. He put his head in his hands.

"Maybe not," Cartman said. "We've still got a little window of opportunity. All we have to do is find the keys to that goddamn car, and we're home free."

Stan dragged his hand down his face. Oh, how he wanted this day to be over. Right now. "Meaning what?" he asked with trepidation.

"Meaning…" Cartman stooped and grabbed Christophe's gun. "We gotta go after Trent."

**As usual, all (helpful) reviews are welcome. Thank you!**

**Chapter 11 up soon…**


	11. Chapter 11

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**As usual, thanks to all readers/reviewers! Wendy/Gregory are back in this chapter – but there is a slight twist – so even if you hate Wendy and Gregory, please don't skip through their part!**

**I don't own any of South Park. Not even Butters :-(**

**Chapter 11**

"Wendy?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you listening to me?"

Wendy put her fork down and looked at Gregory. "Yes." _No._

"So what do you think, then?"

"About what?"

Gregory chuckled and shook his head. "I asked you about checking out of the hotel. I really don't want to bring this up, but don't you think it's time you headed home?"

Wendy stared at him, aghast. "I can't go home! What if Stan comes back here looking for me?"

Gregory pushed his half eaten breakfast away and took Wendy's hands in his own. "I know you want to believe that Stan is still alive, but you must prepare yourself for…bad news. Look," he went on quickly, seeing the tears in her eyes, "I don't want you to lose hope, of course not, but we have to be realistic. There's been no ransom demand, or indeed any contact at all. I have also heard from various people that Stan and his friends made some very powerful enemies thanks to their past exploits." He paused again as Wendy let out a quiet sob. "I'm sorry darling; I didn't want have to say any of that."

Wendy shook her head. "No, no, you're right," she said between sobs. "At least you're being honest with me, unlike everyone else around here. They keep telling me not to worry, that everything'll be alright, but their eyes tell me something completely different." She squeezed his hands. "You've been awesome throughout all this, Gregory. I'll never forget it."

They stared at each other; their eyes lingering just long enough to make them both feel uncomfortable.

"Yes, well, glad to be of service," Gregory said quickly. He let go of Wendy's hands. "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?"

"Yeah, it is. There's a problem with the heating, apparently."

Gregory took his dark blazer off and hung it on the back of his chair. He was dressed down in a plain white T-shirt and jeans. Wendy couldn't help thinking how much the casual look suited him.

"Right, I'll go and see if I can find someone to sort it out," he said.

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and left.

Wendy got up and examined herself in the full length mirror. She looked an absolute fright. She had spent the night in her wedding dress, which was now creased to add to all the dirt and tears. Her hair, which desperately needed a wash, hung lankly over her shoulders. As she stared at herself, she considered what Gregory had said about leaving. Of course deep down she knew he was right. They wouldn't let her stay free of charge for much longer, and she couldn't afford to pay their rates. Yet a part of her didn't want to leave – somehow it felt like she would be leaving Stan, and she couldn't face doing that. She rubbed her eyes wearily. Maybe a nice long shower would help her think more clearly.

She had just reached up to unzip her dress, when a phone rang, startling her. She looked around, trying to locate it. She knew it wasn't her phone – the ringtone was different – so there was only one other possibility. She walked towards Gregory's jacket, and then stopped. It was his phone, it might be a private call, he might not want her to answer it. Then a sudden thought struck her. What if it was Gregory's guy – what was his name? – Chris? What if he had found Stan?

She hurried forward again, almost falling over her own feet in her haste. The phone stopped ringing just as she wrenched it out of the inner pocket of the blazer. She swore under her breath. Perhaps he had left a message. Her hands shook as she hit a button and saw the message on the screen: 1 missed call, one voicemail received.

Fortunately, Gregory hadn't bothered to lock his keypad, so she was able to access it fairly easily. Wendy almost dropped the phone as she listened to the message, which was from the last person she expected it to be. She replayed it, just to make sure she wasn't dreaming, then she dissolved into tears of relief.

_Oh thank God, he's alive. Stan's alive._

Wendy wiped her eyes and plopped down in the nearest chair, Gregory's phone hanging limply from her hand. Her head span as she tried to make sense of what she'd just heard. Her relief was tempered by anger, confusion, then horror as she thought about Gregory. _He's involved. All this time he's been cosying up to me, and he was involved in Stan's disappearance. _Wendy was flabbergasted.He hadn't shown any sign of guilt, and she'd been so grateful, so glad to have him around, that just for a moment, she'd even felt…

She ran to the bathroom as a sudden wave of nausea overtook her, and vomited. She crouched over the toilet bowl, breathing deeply, trying to get her thoughts in order. There was one thing she was sure of, however.

_I will find out what's going on, if it's the last thing I do. I will find out what happened to my Stan._

*

At that precise moment, Wendy Testaburger's fiancé, the very much alive Stan Marsh, was pacing frantically up and down the Cartmans' old hallway. He stopped and turned to face Cartman, aghast.

"Sorry, could you just run that past me again?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as level as possible. "Cos I thought you said we should go find Trent!" He chuckled nervously.

Cartman nodded. "That's what I said."

"Dude, seriously, have you seen Trent?" Stan cried in consternation. "He's built like Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids!"

"_Terminator _Arnie or _Kindergarten Cop _Arnie?"

Stan glared at him. "This is not funny, Cartman! Christophe nearly took us all out, and he's half your size!"

"Chrissie got lucky a few times," Cartman said dismissively. "Anyway, we got one thing going for us that we didn't have before." He waved the gun. "And it is literally five against one now." He paused and thought for a moment. "Well, four and Butters."

"Ah, come on!" Stan looked to the rest of his friends for help. "You cannot seriously be thinking about this!"

"Dude, we don't have a choice!" Kenny said. "That car is our only way out of here, unless you've got a helicopter on standby. Hey, there's a thought. Why don't you ask your new friend Gregory?"

"Shut up!" Stan exhaled deeply. Despite his misgivings, he knew his friends were right. Their only way out was through Trent. He folded his arms and glared at the floor. "Alright, fine!"

Cartman grinned. "I knew you'd come around to our way of thinking eventually, Stanny!" Stan scowled at him. "Alright, let's go."

They trooped toward the front door.

"Hey, wait a second," Kyle said suddenly. "What about him?" He pointed at Christophe.

"What about him?" Cartman asked.

"Shouldn't we, like, tie him up or something?"

"This is no time for your kinky fantasies, Kahl."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I was thinking about him following us, fatass," he replied.

Cartman raised an eyebrow. "Sure you were."

"What the hell are we supposed to tie him up with?" Kenny asked.

They looked at each other and shrugged. Finally, after a couple of minutes of perplexed silence, Cartman gave a frustrated sigh and threw up his hands.

"Do I have to think of everything?" he barked angrily. "Here, hold this."

He thrust the gun toward Butters, who yelped and diverted it in Stan's direction. Cartman, meanwhile, headed upstairs. Kyle, curious despite himself, followed him.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Cartman ignored him, turned at the top of the stairs and walked, to Kyle's surprise, past his old bedroom. Instead, he went into the one next door, which Kyle assumed could only have belonged to Liane Cartman, Eric's mother (or father, depending on which way you looked at it.). After a slight hesitation, Kyle wandered in after him.

"Why are we in here?"

The room surprised Kyle a little. Given Ms. Cartman's reputation, he had expected something a little…racier. Instead there was tasteful flowery wallpaper, pink bedsheets and even a couple of doilies. There were two wardrobes on opposite sides of the room: one normal, one clearly a walk-in one. Cartman flung open the doors of the walk-in closet. Kyle peered inside inquisitively, then almost immediately wished he hadn't.

The closet was stacked from top to bottom with sex toys, gimp masks, whips, rubber outfits and all manner of other things that Kyle couldn't even begin to name. Cartman knelt and pulled open a drawer which was stuffed full of chains and other paraphernalia. Kyle shook his head with incredulity.

"_Goddamn_ your mom's a slut, Cartman."

"Ai!" Cartman paused in his rummaging to glare at him. "At least my mom's not fat and Jewish!"

"How did you even find out about this?" Kyle asked, leaning against one of the doors.

"I came home from school one day and…never you fucking mind, Kahl!" Cartman dumped a pile of chains on the floor.

Kyle leant over him and plucked a couple of pairs of handcuffs from the drawer. He smiled to himself. When Cartman was pissed, there was only one thing to do: push harder.

"So which do you think Christophe would prefer?" he asked. "The normal cuffs or the pink fluffy ones?" He dangled the cuffs from his index fingers.

"Gimme those!" Cartman snatched them off him and threw them back inside the drawer. He gathered up a couple of pairs of ankle cuffs and handcuffs that he'd found and stood up.

"Cool!" a voice said from behind them. "Porn dungeon!"

"Goddamit Kenny, get outta here!"

Cartman slammed the doors shut and hustled Kenny out of the room. Kyle followed, smirking. The three men returned downstairs to join Stan and Butters, who'd propped Christophe in a chair they'd retrieved from the dining room. The unconscious mercenary had slumped forward and was threatening to topple out of the chair, so Butters had been forced to grab him by the shoulders, while Stan kept the gun trained on him.

Stan raised his eyebrows as Cartman cuffed first Christophe's ankles, then his wrists, to the chair.

"Where'd you get those?" he asked.

Cartman shot Kyle and Kenny a warning look as they glanced at each other and sniggered.

"Doesn't matter." He stood up and took the gun back from Stan. "Are we done here or is there anything else you wanna do?" he asked Kyle sarcastically.

Kyle smiled at him in a way that he knew irritated the hell out of the fatboy. "No, I'm good, thanks."

"Great. Let's go."

Cartman booted the front door open and stomped through it, the others following close behind. Just before he left, Stan turned and looked back at Christophe.

_One down. One to go._

**So that'****s chapter 11. This is probably my fave chapter so far – I was giggling all the way through writing it. Please review and let me know what you think of it! Thanks!**

**Chapter 12 up soon…**


	12. Chapter 12

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing, you all rock!**

**Trent's back in this chapter, which could be bad news for someone…**

**I don't own South Park – just this fic.**

**Chapter 12**

The sun bounced off puddles that had collected in the few remaining patches of tarmac, blinding the five men as they walked through what had once been South Park. Stan shielded his eyes from the glare. He didn't remember hearing rain at all during the previous night, but the heavens must have opened at some point.

He shuddered as he looked at the ruins of his hometown. Not for the first time, he felt like he'd wandered into the movie _The Omega Man_.

Stan could feel eyes watching the group from inside every bush and up every tree. Now, he realised, he and his friends were the ones in the minority, the ones to be distrusted and feared. Most of the animal population now occupying South Park had probably never seen a human being before.

He pushed these unsettling thoughts out of his mind and fell into step beside Cartman. The fatass was striding along ahead of the rest of the group, the gun poised in his hands. A man on a mission.

"Cartman? What exactly are you planning to do when we find Trent?"

"Well, you see, Stan, I was thinking of asking him to give us the keys to the Chevy," Cartman said patronisingly. "What did you think I was gonna do? Ask him to slow dance?"

Stan ignored the last flippant remark. "And what are you gonna do if he refuses?"

"Start shooting bits of him, probably."

"Uh huh. Have you considered the possibility that Trent might have a gun too?" Now it was Stan's turn to be patronising.

An anxious look briefly crossed Cartman's fat face before his usual glower returned, like sunshine breaking through a stormcloud. "Yeah," he replied after a short pause.

Stan stared at him and shook his head. _You stupid fatass._

"Dude, you start shooting and this could turn into a bloodbath," he said in a low voice, after a cursory glance back at the other three. "Trent's definitely crazy enough. What are you gonna do then?"

"Use Kahl as a human shield," Cartman replied casually, not bothering to keep his voice down.

Both men ignored Kyle's wary cry of: "What?!"

They turned into Main Street. Cartman stopped and took a deep breath. The others stopped and looked at him expectantly.

"Well, come on then," Stan said bitchily. "You're the man with the plan."

Cartman glared at him, shoved past them and stalked off down the street, his head held high. The others followed at a safe distance.

"What was Cartman saying about using me as a human shield?" Kyle asked Stan after a minute of strained silence.

"He was kidding," Stan assured him. "Its just Cartman being an asshole as usual, that's all." _At least, I hope he was kidding._

Stan could never tell when Cartman was joking or being deadly serious, especially about things involving Kyle and death. This was the guy who had had Scott Tenorman's parents killed and then served them up to him in a chili, after all.

Dread gripped Stan's heart as they continued their long, slow walk down Main Street. They had no clue where Trent was, so the idea was to hang around outside Carl's Warehouse until he showed up and ambush him in much the same way they had done with Christophe, which was the part Stan had a problem with. Cartman insisted that having Christophe's gun was an advantage; Stan saw it as a catalyst to an already flammable situation.

As it turned out, they didn't need to wait for Trent after all. He was lying on the bonnet of the Chevy as they approached, one knee crooked upwards, and his head resting on the windscreen. His eyes were closed. A rifle lay across his stomach.

A chill ran up Stan's spine as he took in the scene. Something about this didn't feel right. He glanced at Cartman, who took a cautious step forward.

"Trent?" he said. He raised the rifle.

Trent lifted his head and grinned when he saw them.

"Well howdy," he said. "I was wondering when I'd see you guys again."

He started to sit up.

"Ah, ah, ah," Cartman said. "Throw the gun in the gutter. Nice and easy now."

Trent raised one hand and threw the gun away with the other.

"Wow, you've really got me now, haven't ya?" he said. For some reason, his grin had gotten even wider.

Icy fingers gripped Stan's heart and lungs. Something was definitely up here. Perhaps Gregory had got his voicemail after all. Perhaps there were a dozen men about to jump out at them armed with AKs. He leaned in towards Cartman.

"Cartman, I think – "

"Shut up, Stan!" Cartman hissed. To Trent he said: "Keys. Now."

Trent frowned. "Keys? What keys?" he asked. After a moment of playing dumb, his face brightened. "Oh, you mean the keys to this baby." He patted the Chevy. "Er…no."

Cartman held the rifle a little tighter. "Don't make me start putting holes in you, Trent."

Trent shrugged. "Go ahead. If you think you can," he sneered.

Stan shut his eyes as Cartman rested his finger on the trigger. Trent clearly didn't know Cartman very well if he didn't think Cartman would have the balls to shoot him. Stan knew better than most that Cartman enjoyed a challenge. He bit his lip, waiting for the inevitable bang…

Which never came. Instead he heard a series of loud clicks, and Cartman muttering: "What the hell?"

On the car, Trent began to laugh.

"What's wrong with it?" Kyle asked urgently as Cartman continued to fiddle with the gun.

"I don't know!"

"Hey Eric, are you lookin' for these?" Trent asked suddenly.

Stan's blood ran cold as Trent reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bullets. The five men stared at them dumbly.

"But that means Christophe…" Kyle began.

"Never stood a chance," Stan finished.

"Oh, come on!" Trent exclaimed. "Do you really think I'd let that French faggot get to you first? No. This is my fight." He jumped down from the car and retrieved his own gun. "Do you know how long I've been here waiting for you guys to show up? Still, I'm not complaining," he went on. "The wait's been worth it. See, I knew you'd turn up here and try to get away. Cos that's what you guys do, isn't it? You run away." He pointed the gun at them. "Now my only problem is: what shall I do with you? Make you suffer, or shoot you where you stand?"

"Trent, lets just calm down and talk about this for a second," Kyle said slowly.

"Oh I'm perfectly calm, don't you worry 'bout that," Trent replied. "And what is there to talk about? I want you dead and I've got the only working weapon. That's gonna be a pretty one sided conversation, Broflovski."

To Stan's horror, Kyle took a step forward. "Kyle! Get back!" he hissed in alarm.

Kyle raised his hand, then turned back to Trent, who watched him closely.

"Look Trent, I know you think you want to do this, but think about it," Kyle said in that same, slow voice. "You're about to take five lives. If you do this, you'll be hunted for the rest of yours. You'll never be free." For a moment, Kyle thought he saw a flicker of doubt on Trent's face. He tried again. "You see, I don't think you want to kill us, deep down. I think you're confused and angry and hurt and a thousand other things. But I don't think you're a killer."

Trent pointed the rifle right at the centre of Kyle's forehead. "You don't think so, huh?"

Kyle stood firm, despite the growing terror in his heart. "No, I don't."

Trent smiled at him, and placed his finger on the trigger. "Well lets see, shall we?" he said softly.

He pulled the trigger.

**Ha ha! Sorry about that, I was gonna add more to this chapter, but I just love a cliffhanger!**

**Chapter 13 up soon – let's hope it's not unlucky for Kyle…**


	13. Chapter 13

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Wow, an update in t****hree days. That's a new record for me. Thanks to all readers/reviewers, especially those who threatened me with physical violence if I didn't update quickly (hello, Doomed-Orange-Parka!)**

**So what can I tell you about this chapter…um, Wendy's back. But try not to hold that against me.**

**I don't own South Park.**

**Chapter 13**

BANG.

Stan knew that sound would stay with him for a long time as he watched his lifelong friend fall to the ground, blood pouring from the small hole in the centre of his forehead.

His breath came out in short sharp gasps, and his legs threatened to give way underneath him. He stared at the body of the boy he'd known all his life, then at Trent, who smiled triumphantly. He looked at his remaining friends, who all looked as shocked as he felt.

He shut his eyes and swallowed hard. He knew what he had to say, he knew what was expected of him, but it was so hard. He bowed his head and took a deep breath. The guy had been one of his best friends. It was the very least he deserved.

"Oh my God, he killed Kenny!"

"You bastard!"

Stan gripped Kyle's shaking shoulders and rested his head against his back. Despite the overwhelming feeling of anger and sadness inside him, there was a soothing balm of relief salving his soul. Sheer relief that it was not his closest friend he was grieving for right now.

Stan held on tighter to Kyle, and choked back tears. How could he think something so awful? One of his best friends had just died and he was _relieved_? How could he be so crass? Sure, Kenny was always resurrected at some point after every death, but that didn't stop his friends grieving for him.

"So what's your professional opinion now, doc?" Trent's drawl cut through their pain. "You still think I ain't capable of wastin' anyone?"

Kyle lifted his head and looked at him, tears streaming down his pale face. "Why? Why him and not me?"

Trent shrugged. "Cos I like messin' with ya. Plus I need McCormick dead. I got plans for that freaky bastard."

Stan let go of Kyle, his arms dropping limply to his sides. He suddenly felt incredibly tired – not just in himself, but of the whole goddamn situation. Let Trent do what he wanted. Maybe they deserved it.

"You see, this is exactly what I'm always saying!" Cartman shouted. His voice made the others jump. "This is exactly what happens when you let Kahl make one of his gay little speeches!"

He waved a hand towards the lifeless Kenny as he spoke.

"What!" Stan yelled in disbelief. He stared at Cartman's chalk white face. His eyes were dark, furious pinpricks. "You can't blame Kyle for this!"

"The hell I can't!" Cartman roared back. He shot Kyle a truly ferocious look.

"No, Stan, he's right," Kyle said quietly. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

"Now, now, ladies," Trent said smugly. "Don't wear yourselves out. We've got the rest of the day together."

"Actually, we haven't," Stan replied. "Gregory knows we're still alive, Trent. He's probably on his way here with the cavalry right now."

"Really?" Trent asked. He stared at Stan, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth. "Hmm. If that's true, I'm gonna have to move my timetable up." He pointed the rifle at them again. "Alright everybody. Back inside the warehouse."

Nobody moved. They stared at him defiantly.

"Come on now," Trent said, a note of urgency in his voice. He walked towards them. "Move it, unless you wanna join McCormick on the floor."

They looked at each other. Stan nodded. "Come on, guys. Let's just do what he wants."

_Then maybe we've still got a chance. Maybe we can overpower him somehow._

"That's right," Trent said, watching them carefully as they trooped compliantly into the warehouse. "Nice and easy now."

He grinned at Cartman, who glared back.

Trent slammed the door shut behind him. "Alright then. We've got some unfinished business, boys."

*

Wendy Testaburger lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her mind was spinning. The discoveries she'd made about Stan and Gregory lay inside her like a dead weight. All she wanted to do was tell someone, anyone, what she knew, but who would believe her? It wasn't like she even had Gregory's phone anymore to back up her claims.

No, this had to be dealt with in a different way. She would have to box clever if she wanted to find out the truth.

She was alone in the room, having told Gregory earlier that she needed some time on her own. He had clearly sensed a change in the atmosphere between them: he had given her a strange look before leaving reluctantly. Wendy took a deep breath. She would have to be careful from now on if she was going to avoid arousing his suspicions.

She was so immersed in her thoughts; she almost didn't hear the knock on the door.

She sat up quickly. What if it was him? She looked around for something to grab, then chastised herself. _Take it easy. Don't blow everything apart now._

She got up and walked to the door, her stomach one giant knot of tension. She opened the door and nearly fainted with relief.

"Bebe!"

Her best friend grinned as Wendy enveloped her in a hug.

"It is so good to see you!" Wendy exclaimed into Bebe's neck.

"Good. So are you gonna let me in, then?"

"Oh yeah. Sorry."

Wendy stood aside as Bebe hobbled in, using crutches for support.

Bebe Stephens was tall, blonde and very beautiful. She and Wendy had been best friends since elementary school.

"So when did they let you out?" Wendy asked as the two women sat down on the bed.

"I discharged myself this morning," Bebe replied. "There's not much more they can do for a broken leg, is there? Besides there weren't even any good looking doctors!"

Wendy smiled sadly.

Bebe took her friend's hands. "Oh, Wendy, I'm so sorry. Red told me what happened. I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through right now. God, I'd die if anything like that happened to my boyfriend."

"Which one?" Wendy remarked caustically.

Both girls chuckled.

"Touché." Bebe sighed. "I'm really sorry I haven't been here for you, Wendy. I am glad you haven't been going through this on your own, though."

Wendy stared at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"That Gregory guy," Bebe replied. "Red said he's really been looking after you. She said he's been awesome – not that she thinks he's hot or anything." She rolled her eyes.

Wendy laughed humourlessly. "Gregory. Oh yeah, he's been a real rock," she said sarcastically.

Bebe raised her eyebrows, surprised at the sudden change of tone.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked. Her eyes widened in horror. "Oh my god! Has he hit on you?"

"No. Well not yet, anyway," Wendy said bitterly. "It's a lot worse than that, Bebe."

Bebe listened with increasing shock as Wendy filled her in on everything that had happened.

"So, why don't you just go to the cops?" she asked when Wendy had finished.

"Because without the phone I've got nothing," Wendy explained. "Gregory could delete the voicemail at any time. He could make me look like a mad woman."

"So what are we going to do?" Bebe asked.

Wendy didn't answer for a moment. A germ of an idea had begun to grow in her mind as she'd been talking to Bebe, but it was very risky. However, if it worked, there was every chance she'd be reunited with Stan. She nodded, her decision made.

"I do have one idea," she said slowly. "Bebe, I need your help."

**Okay, not as good a cliffie as the previous chapter, but please review anyway! Thanks!**

**Chapter 14 up soon…**


	14. Chapter 14

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Thanks to all readers/reviewers, your comments are very welcome. All I've gotta say about this chapter is…GIRL POWER!**

**Hey Don'tKillKenny – are you still there? Haven't heard from you recently. Don't quit on me now, we're getting near the end!**

**I don't own South Park.**

**Chapter 14**

Wendy paced her room, tapping her mobile phone against her chin in an agitated fashion. She paused, looked at it and shook her head, then resumed pacing. After a couple more lengths, she stopped and looked at the phone again.

_It's now or never._

She sighed angrily and flipped her phone open. She scrolled through her contacts until she found Gregory, and called.

"Hello, Wendy. Are you alright?"

Involuntary chills ran down her spine at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just called to apologise for how I spoke to you earlier. I was feeling a little off."

"It's fine, really. It's quite natural, with what you're going through."

_Cunt._

"Yeah." Wendy sucked in some air. Now for the hard part. "Listen, uh, why don't you come up here?"

"Are you sure?" He suddenly sounded happier.

"Yeah. To be honest, I could do with the company."

"Okay, then. I'll be up in five minutes."

Wendy grimaced, and called another number. There was no turning back now.

"Bebe? We're on."

*

Nearly ten minutes passed before the knock on the door. Wendy didn't know whether to be relieved or scared as she went to answer it. Gregory smiled at her as he stepped inside.

"Hello, Wendy. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay, thanks."

For a few moments they stood in awkward silence, Gregory watching Wendy intently.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked eventually. "You seem nervous."

"No! I mean yeah!" she said quickly. "I-I'm just…" She rubbed her forehead. "Could you help me out with something?"

"Er, okay. What do you want me to do?"

"Well, I wanna get out of this dress." She looked down at her bedraggled wedding dress. "I mean, there's no point sitting around here like Miss Havisham, is there? Uh, anyway, the thing is, I think the zip's stuck. Could you take a look at it for me?"

"I…um, er, um…well, um…" Gregory flushed a deep crimson as he unwittingly did his best Hugh Grant impression. "Um, yeah, sure. No problem!" he said falteringly.

"Great." Wendy turned her back to him and lifted her hair up.

Gregory cleared his throat in an embarrassed way, and went over to her. He gave the unruly zip a gentle tug and it began to move. He unzipped the dress slowly all the way down to the small of Wendy's back. She flinched as his fingers brushed her bare skin.

"You seem tense," he murmured.

"I'm fine," she replied, her skin crawling at the lie.

She stepped away from him, holding her unzipped dress up to cover her modesty, and grabbed a black tracksuit from the bed.

"I won't be a minute," she said as she headed for the bathroom. "Make yourself comfortable."

Once inside the bathroom, Wendy changed quickly and tied her hair back. Instead of rejoining Gregory, she stood, waiting. _Come on Bebe, any time now… _There was a knock at the hotel room door.

"Can you get that?" she shouted out to him.

There was a slight pause, and then she heard Bebe greeting Gregory a little too enthusiastically. Wendy rolled her eyes and slipped out of the bathroom, unnoticed by Gregory. He was staring at Bebe, as most guys tended to do.

"Hey, Gregory," Bebe was saying. "It's good to see you again."

"It is?" He sounded confused.

"Yeah!" Bebe giggled. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"Ummm…"

"Well, it was a long time ago. I'm Bebe, Wendy's friend." She proffered her hand, which Gregory shook. "I was a member of La Resistance." She chanced a quick look at Wendy, and then turned her attention back to the entranced Gregory. "I gotta say, you have changed a lot, Greg."

"For the better, I hope."

"Definitely for the better." Bebe popped open a couple of buttons on her white silk shirt.

Wendy picked up a vase from a nearby table and crept up behind Gregory. She couldn't see his face, but she had a pretty good idea of what his expression was, the dirty horndog. Bebe had always had that effect on the male of the species, right from the moment she'd hit puberty.

Right now, she was giving her latest victim her best seductive smile. "Hey Greg, do you fancy a sandwich?" she asked, winking broadly.

He didn't get a chance to answer because Wendy brought the vase down hard on the back of his head. He slumped to the floor without a sound.

"Do you fancy a sandwich?" Wendy repeated, shaking her head. "Damn girl, you are so cheap."

Bebe grinned. "I know. You should've seen his face, Wendy. His eyes were out on stalks."

"I wonder why," Wendy remarked, glancing at Bebe's ample cleavage.

She grabbed Gregory under his shoulders and inched him toward the small table she'd got the vase from.

"A little help here?" she puffed.

"Sorry," Bebe countered. "I'd love to help, but y'know." She waggled her crutches.

After a couple of almost super human tugs, Wendy managed to manoeuvre the prostrate Gregory into position in front of the table. She stood up, gasping for air.

"Goddamit! I gotta start working out!"

She walked over to a chest of drawers and rummaged through until she found what she was looking for. Bebe watched with interest as her friend came up with a pair of tights and an old blue bandana.

"My something blue," Wendy answered her friend's querying look.

She wrapped the bandana and the tights around Gregory's wrists and attached them to the table legs.

"Are you sure this is gonna work?" Bebe asked nervously.

"It has to," Wendy replied quietly, staring at Gregory. A thought struck her. "Ooh, I nearly forgot."

She grabbed her cellphone from her handbag and slid it into her pocket, just as Gregory gave a low moan. The girls positioned themselves on either side of him.

"You ready?" Wendy asked in a low voice.

"Not really."

"Just follow my lead."

Gregory opened his eyes and looked around. It took him a moment to register that something wasn't quite right.

"Wha-What's going on?"

"Funny, I could ask you the same question," Wendy said archly.

"What are you talking about?"

Wendy knelt and leant in until her face was just a couple of inches from Gregory's. "Where's Stan?"

"What?" he shouted. "How the hell should I know?"

"Drop the act, Gregory. I know you were involved in the kidnapping," Wendy hissed furiously. "You see, Stan left you a voicemail earlier, and I listened to it. So I know. I know that you've had Stan and his friends kidnapped. I know you tried to have them killed. And I know you only did it so you could try and get close to me, you sick, twisted fuck."

"I really don't have any idea what you're talking about," Gregory said calmly.

Wendy leant back a little. "Okay, Bebe. Do it."

Bebe smiled, lifted one of her crutches and placed it gently on Gregory's groin. As he watched, horrified, she pressed down – hard. Wendy put her hand over his mouth to cover the yelps of pain. After a minute of unbearable pain, Bebe relieved the pressure on Gregory's groin.

"Ready to talk now?" Wendy asked.

"I'm sorry, Wendy," Gregory panted. "I really can't help you."

"Alright then. Bebe?"

Bebe pressed the crutch down again.

After a further five minutes of questions, unsatisfactory answers and some more crushing of Gregory's love-spuds, the two women stood up.

"We're not getting anywhere," Bebe said, frustrated. "He's not going to crack."

"We have to keep trying," Wendy said.

Bebe sighed and glared at the floor for a moment. She looked up again – and gasped. "Wendy, look out!"

Wendy had no time to react as Gregory grabbed her from behind.

"You really should learn to tie tighter knots," he said, his breath hot on the side of her face.

He looked around the room and then went over to the dressing table, dragging Wendy along with him. He grabbed an ivory handled letter opener that was posing as an ornament and held it to her throat. Bebe gasped in horror.

"Utter one sound, my dear, and I'll cut her throat," Gregory told her through gritted teeth.

Bebe shut her mouth.

"So is this you admitting everything?" Wendy asked, her voice trembling.

"I don't have to admit anything," he replied. "Apparently you've heard from your erstwhile fiancé. You've got me bang to rights, haven't you?"

"What are you going to do now?"

"I've got to clear this mess up," Gregory answered. "I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me, Wendy." He glared at Bebe. "And as for you, my little slapper…"

He kicked out at her, taking her crutches out from under her with one swift movement. Bebe cried out in pain as she hit the floor, landing heavily on her broken leg.

"Bebe!" Wendy cried as Gregory hustled her toward the door.

He opened it and shoved her through, then closed the door gently, cutting off Bebe's desperate cries. Concealing the letter opener carefully up his sleeve, he put his arm around Wendy's shoulder, holding her just hard enough to leave a mark.

"Now, we're going to walk down through the hotel to my car," he informed her casually, as though they were about to embark on a sightseeing trip. "If you try and alert anyone on the way down, I'll finish it right here. Understand?"

Wendy nodded. She didn't know if Gregory would really carry out his threat, but she didn't want to push him too far. He already looked on edge as it was.

As it turned out, the walk down through the hotel was an uneventful one. Wendy didn't see anyone she knew – most of the wedding guests, including some of her family, had already checked out – so they reached Gregory's dark blue Mercedes relatively undisturbed. He opened the passenger door.

"Right, in you get," he said, waving toward it.

"No!" Wendy said defiantly. "Not until you tell me what's happening."

Gregory sighed as though she were a troublesome child. "Don't make me put you in the boot, darling."

Wendy scowled at the tarmac and climbed in reluctantly. Gregory jogged around the other side and got in. He gunned the engine and they pulled out of the car park. Wendy took a few deep breaths, then instantly regretted it. The air in the car was thick with Gregory's expensive smelling aftershave.

She glanced across at him. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw set firm, his eyes fixed on the road. Carefully, she slid her hand into her pocket until she touched the cold, hard surface of her mobile phone and ran her fingers across it until she had located the two buttons that she needed. As she pressed them - carefully so as not to attract Gregory's attention – she gave private thanks that she had resisted the urge to buy an iPhone. She slowly pulled her hand out again and rested it in her lap with the other one. _God I hope this works._

"Where are we going?" she asked after a couple of minutes of uneasy silence.

Gregory smiled broadly, as though he was thinking about a joke only he knew the punchline to.

"I'm taking you home, Wendy," he replied, grinning at her confusion. "We're going to South Park."

**Damn, my hands ache now…so if you could review, it would make the pain all worth it! XD Thank you!**

**Chapter 15 up soon…**


	15. Chapter 15

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Okay, yeah I know. Before you all yell at me, let me just apologise for the long delay between the previous chapter and this one…I'm sorry! I've had a serious case of writer's block with this chappy, so it may well be rubbish – but please read it anyway!**

**Thanks to all reviewers, and to all you latecomers to this story – I hope you're enjoying it!**

**Chapter 15**

_Oh yeah, great plan. Really great plan. I mean, a real doozy. Let's see if we can overpower him somehow. Yeah. That's why I'm tied to a fucking post right now._

Stan leaned forward, pulling at the rope which was tied tightly around his arms and torso. The harder he pulled, the tighter the rope seemed to get. He groaned quietly. He had pins and needles in his left arm and his bum was numb from sitting on the warehouse's hard wooden floor. Kyle was sitting behind Stan, tied to the same post. Cartman and Butters were tethered to another post a few feet away.

Things hadn't really gone to plan when they'd entered the warehouse. Trent had kept a close eye on them, making sure everybody stayed where he could see them. He'd fired a couple of warning shots into the floor to show he meant business, and then got them to tie each other each other up before securing the last man standing – Stan – himself.

Stan's head began to ache. Trent had hit him with the butt of the gun a couple of times when he hadn't been quick enough to accede to his demands. He smacked his lips, trying to generate some saliva. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth like Velcro. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or drunk anything. He felt dizzy, both from fear and hunger. He looked at Trent who was sitting on a box nearby, sharpening a machete.

"Trent, could I have some water please?" he croaked.

Trent's head snapped up. "What?"

"Could I have some water please?"

Trent snickered, as though something had greatly amused him.

"Ai, what's so funny, asshole!" Cartman shouted at him.

"Oh no, nothing really," Trent replied, still smirking. "I'm just wonderin' why you think I'd want to give you anything."

"Oh come on," Stan said desperately. "All I'm asking for is some water. What difference does that make to you?"

"Meh. You're probably right, Marsh."

Trent grabbed a plastic bottle of water standing at his feet and strode over to Stan. He grabbed a clump of his hair, forcing his head back and jammed the bottle into his hostage's protesting mouth. The water went down Stan's throat so quickly that he spluttered and brought most of it back up again. Fortunately, though, he ingested just enough to soothe his sore mouth.

Trent stepped back and smiled. "Feel better, Marsh?" He looked around at the others. "Anybody else want any? Broflovski?"

"No thanks."

"I'll have some," Cartman said. He frowned at Trent approached with the bottle. "You'd better not have pissed in that."

Trent rolled his eyes and took a swig from the bottle. "See, piss-free! Do you want some or not?"

Cartman nodded and was given the water in the same rough way as Stan. As he spluttered, Trent applied the same treatment to Butters.

"Oh, thank you Trent," Butters said between coughs. "I always liked you really."

Trent punched him on the side of the head. "Don't think you can get round me that fuckin' way, asshole!"

"Seriously Trent, do you really think we'd try something so lame?" Stan asked. "You're going to kill us. We get it."

Trent bristled at his indifferent tone of voice. "It didn't have to get this far, you know. If you guys had just fessed up from the start, all of this could've been avoided."

"What do you mean 'from the start'?" Cartman asked incredulously. "Are you talking about pre-school? Jesus Christ, that was fifteen years ago! Get over it!"

Trent stormed over to him, murder in his eyes.

"Do you think it's that easy?" he shouted. "I've been to prison twice since then, all because of what you did to Miss Claridge! What y_ou did_!" He paused to wipe spittle from his chin. "Do you have any idea of what my life's been like? You guys got to go to school and have normal lives, while I was locked away. Your parents got to see you graduate. They were proud of you, while mine…mine just gave up on me."

Trent sat down cross-legged on the floor, his fingers unconsciously playing with a tatty red homemade bracelet on his right wrist. He stared at it, lost in the memories that his rant had brought to the surface.

"Do you know what they used to say to me every time they came to visit?" he asked quietly. "'Do the right thing, Trent. Tell the truth.' Except I did tell them the truth, over and over, but they wouldn't listen to me. You see, that's what happens in prison. You can protest your innocence again and again, you can shout and scream and kick and punch, but nobody listens. See, everybody thinks that cos you're the one in prison, you must be guilty. When you protest your innocence, they think you're deluded and they pity you. Then they leave, and, no matter how long you wait, they don't come back. Just like my parents."

Stan thought he heard a crack in Trent's voice, and looked away. "Your parents abandoned you?" he asked.

Trent nodded. "After I got sent down the third time, they came to see me, and we had the usual argument. At the next visit, it was my mom on her own. Then nobody came. I waited and I hoped, but I never saw or heard from them again. Not even a birthday or Christmas card. Nothing. So when I got out, I went looking for them. It took me a while, but I found them, and I found something else, too." He looked up and stared at Stan. "I found out that I have a four year old brother called Bradley." He laughed bitterly. "Man, I knew they'd rejected me, but I had no idea they'd actually replaced me as well."

"Why didn't you just go and talk to them?" Kyle asked.

Trent smiled grimly. "You've never met my parents, have you Broflovski? Once they make up their minds about something, that's it. And they obviously decided they didn't want me anymore."

"Do you know why your parents disowned you, Trent?" Cartman asked, his eyes glittering with malice. "It's because they finally saw what a dickhole they have for a son. You can't blame us for that."

Stan banged the back of his head against the post in silent frustration. Just when he had seen a possible way of getting through to Trent, that fat asshole had to go and blow it apart.

Trent stood up; his face contorted with fury, and walked over to Cartman. He drew his fist back and was about to let fly with a vicious punch when the sound of a car screeching to a halt outside the warehouse stopped him in his tracks. He moved away from Cartman and grabbed his rifle, which was leaning against the boxes.

"Nobody make a sound," he growled.

Stan couldn't hear anything except the blood pumping in his ears. What the hell was going on? Were they actually about to be rescued, or was it something much worse? He held his breath, waiting.

After a few seconds, a car door slammed, closely followed by another. Two doors. Two people. Stan balled his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. Outside, someone said gruffly:

"Come on. Move it." Someone who had an English accent.

The other person cried out in pain and there was a scraping sound, as though they were being dragged. Trent tiptoed toward the door, his rifle at the ready. The tension inside Stan was unbearable. One of the people was Gregory, he was certain of that, but the other person sounded like a woman. _Oh please God don't let it be…_

The door flew open and Gregory strode in, dragging a struggling Wendy. Stan was filled with a mixture of relief and horror at the sight of his fiancée.

"Wendy!" he cried.

She stopped struggling at the sound of his voice and stared at him. Tears began to stream down her face.

"Stan?"

He nodded, and felt his own cheeks becoming wet.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Trent asked, cutting across their happy reunion.

"I'm afraid Miss Testaburger has been a little too inquisitive for her own good," Gregory replied with his customary sneer.

Trent smirked. "Sounds like you've been a little sloppy, Greg."

"This wouldn't have happened if you and Christophe had done your bloody job!" Gregory snapped. He looked around the warehouse. "Where is Christophe, anyway?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Let me get this straight," Gregory said, a mirthless smile on his face. "You let them escape long enough for Stanley to leave me a voicemail, and you lose Christophe into the bargain? Its not me who's been sloppy, Boyette."

Trent narrowed his eyes and raised the rifle. "I could've done this without you. I don't need you or that French fag."

"Oh yes, because you were doing so well for yourself when we met!" Gregory said sarcastically. "You were living in some alleyway near your parents' house, weren't you?"

Stan's heart rate was off the scale. He didn't like the look in Trent's eyes one bit, and apparently neither did Gregory. A look of horror crossed the Brit's face as he remembered that his gun was locked in the safe in his hotel room. He swore under his breath and manoeuvred Wendy into a human shield position in front of him, ignoring Stan's cry of outrage and her squeals of protest. Trent lowered the rifle slightly as the truth began to dawn on him. He was fully in charge of this situation, and there was nothing that pompous asshole could do about it. He smiled as he watched the smugness drain out of Gregory.

Trent edged over toward a pile of rope, never taking his eyes off his opponent, and threw it at Gregory's feet.

"Over there," he snarled, nodding to an empty post next to Butters and Cartman. "Tie her up, then sit down on the other side."

Gregory rolled his eyes. "Oh, please – you're taking me hostage? Is that the best you can do?"

Trent flicked the safety catch on the gun. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Gregory sighed as though the whole was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and stooped to grab the rope. Wendy looked at Stan, terror in her eyes.

"It's all right, sweetheart," Stan said in the most reassuring voice he could manage. "Just do what he says. It'll all be okay."

Gregory tutted and sighed with displeasure as he tied a shell-shocked Wendy to the post. As Trent was securing him, Wendy finally found her voice.

"Will somebody please tell what the hell is going on?" she asked tremulously. "Who the fuck are you?"

She addressed this last remark to Trent, who walked around to her side. He crouched next to her, grinning.

"Trent Boyette. You obviously don't remember me."

"Trent Boyette," Wendy repeated slowly, frowning as she Googled his name in her memory. "Wait! I know you! You're the guy who attacked Miss Claridge!"

The grin disappeared from Trent's face. "Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but none of what you've heard about me is true – is it, boys?" He threw glances at Stan, Kyle and Cartman.

Wendy looked confused. "What?"

Trent looked at Stan, his grin widening. "You haven't told her, have you?" He tutted mockingly. "Keeping secrets from your wife-to-be, huh, Stanny? That's not a good way to start a marriage."

"What secrets?" Wendy looked from Trent to Stan, her confusion growing. "What's he talking about, Stan?"

Feeling backed into an increasingly large corner, Stan looked at her then at the only one of his friends he could see – Cartman, who shrugged as best he could through the rope.

"Don't do this Stan, please!" Kyle pleaded from behind him. "If my mom finds out about this she'll break my legs!"

"Kyle, you're nineteen now. You've really gotta get over this thing with your mom." Stan turned his attention back to Wendy. "Um, the thing is, honey, uh…none of Miss Claridge's accidents were Trent's fault. They were ours."

Wendy stared at him, stony-faced. Stan licked his lips nervously and continued.

"The first accident – the one in pre-school – we were playing this game called Firemen, and we asked Trent to start a fire. We honestly thought we could put it out! When the police came, we blamed Trent." He looked at her, his eyes wide. "We were scared – we didn't know what else to do!"

Wendy nodded. "Go on."

Stan lowered his eyes. "Five years later, the time of the second accident, Trent came after us. We were just about to tell Miss Claridge the truth about the first accident when he found us! Cartman had his mom's taser and he panicked and fired it, but it hit Miss Claridge, and her chair went nuts. When the cops turned up, we lied and pointed the finger at Trent again."

"Ai!" Cartman shouted angrily. "Don't lay all the blame for that one on me! It wasn't my fault the stupid taser hit the wrong person!"

Stan ignored him and ploughed on. "And the third accident, when the school burnt down…it was a total fluke! You'd have to have been there to believe what happened!"

"Why don't you explain it to me?" Wendy asked impatiently.

"What?" Stan stared at her in surprise.

"Tell me what happened." There was something in Wendy's eyes that Stan couldn't read. He frowned at her, but she stared back at him non-committally.

"Oh yeah, I wanna hear this!" Trent said enthusiastically. "Lets see if you can tell the truth for once, Stanny boy!"

"For God's sake! This is ridiculous!" Gregory muttered crossly.

Trent walked back over to him, flipped the rifle and hit his former partner in crime hard on the side of the head with the butt, stunning him.

"Shut up!" he said harshly. He looked at Stan. "Well come on Marsh, lets hear it!"

Stan looked at Wendy, who stared at him expectantly. He sighed with resignation.

"Fine, if you really care that much," he said. "This is what really happened five years ago."

**And that's that, until the next chapter at least – which will be from Stan's POV, by the way. Until then, please review!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Thank you for all your reviews, etc. You know I love ya! **

**This chapter is from Stan's POV, and it's about what happened when the lads were fourteen! Enjoy!**

**I forgot the disclaimer in the last chapter (slap on wrist) - I don't own South Park.**

**Chapter 16**

I can remember that day like it happened yesterday. I was still asleep when my dad burst into my room, throwing the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.

"Wake up Stan!" he said loudly.

"Oh come on, dad!" I groaned.

He pulled the curtains open. The harsh daylight made me blink rapidly.

"Sorry Stan, but you gotta get up," he said. "Cartman's on the phone. He wants to talk to you."

I squinted at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It was 9:15. I wondered idly why the fatass would be calling me at 9:15 on a Saturday morning. He never normally got out of bed before 3pm.

"What the hell does he want?" I asked.

"I don't know, but it sounds urgent."

Having done his job, Dad left me to it. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, trying my best to wake up. After an agitated shout from Dad, I groaned, got up and went downstairs, rubbing my eyes and cursing the daylight. I stifled a yawn as I grabbed the phone.

"Cartman?" I said blearily.

He babbled something down the phone which my sleep-fogged brain didn't catch.

"Slow down dude," I said, rubbing my forehead tiredly. "Say that again."

He babbled again, but this time two words came through loud and clear: "Trent" and "Boyette". Suddenly I was wide awake.

"Trent Boyette!" I said, dread rising inside me. "What about him?"

"He's out of juvie. Geez Stan, I've told you that twice already."

"He's out!" I shouted. I clapped a hand over my mouth and looked around anxiously. "Since when?" I asked, more quietly this time.

"He got out sometime yesterday. I only found out because I was talking to Clyde last night and he swears he saw Trent at the mall."

"Yeah, but it might not have been Trent!" I said frantically. "It's been five years since we last saw him! He's probably changed a lot!"

"Clyde's pretty sure it was him."

"Oh God." I sat down on the stairs, my legs unable to support me. "What the hell are we gonna do, Cartman?"

"We gotta tell Kyle and Kenny."

"Yeah." I rubbed my eyes again and tried to ignore the urge to go back upstairs and disappear under my duvet for the next decade. "I'll call Kyle, you call Kenny."

I rang off, took a deep breath and called Kyle. Unlike me, he was already up and about. He greeted me cheerily when he realised who it was.

"Hey Stan! What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?"

I told him about my conversation with Cartman. When I mentioned Trent, he yelped in alarm.

"What's wrong, bubbe?" I heard his mom call out in the background.

"Uh, just cut myself shaving, mom!" he called back. I could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line. "Trent's out? Jesus Stan, what are we gonna do?" he asked in a loud whisper.

"We can't talk about this on the phone," I said. I looked at the clock on the opposite wall. It was 9:30. "Meet me at Stark's Pond in fifteen minutes."

"Okay." His voice sounded shaky. "What about Cartman and Kenny?"

"I'll text them. See you in fifteen minutes."

I hung up, bolted upstairs and dressed quickly in my favourite ripped jeans, an old black T-shirt and my trusty red and blue poofball hat. I fired off a couple of texts to Cartman and Kenny and charged back downstairs, stopping just long enough to grab my coat on the way out.

Barely 10 minutes later, I stood under a tree at Stark's Pond stamping my feet against the cold and feeling increasingly paranoid about every sound coming from the bushes around me. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped violently. I turned to find Cartman and Kyle behind me.

"Way to nearly give me a heart attack, guys!" I said, breathing deeply to recover from my shock.

"Pussy!" Cartman sneered. He looked around. "Where the hell's po'boy?"

"Here he comes," Kyle said, nodding toward Kenny who was jogging across the grass.

"Hey guys! Sorry I'm late," he panted. When he'd sufficiently recovered from his short run, he straightened up. "So, what's the plan?"

No-one answered him. I guess we were all still in shock from the recent turn of events.

"If anybody's got any ideas, I'm all ears," Kyle said, chuckling nervously.

Kenny shook his head and Cartman stared at the snow. I had come up with one idea that I'd dismissed almost straight away, but if everybody else was fresh out…I licked my lips anxiously and broached the silence.

"I did have one idea." I paused for a second before going on. "I thought that maybe we could ask Shelley for help."

I shut my eyes, not wanting to see their reactions. When I opened them again they were staring at me, their expressions ranging from shock to outright horror.

"Ask Shelley? Are you nuts?" Cartman asked in exasperation. "Why would your ho of a sister help us anyway?"

"Because she said she would," I replied. "You remember – she said that if we told Miss Claridge the truth about our part in the kindergarten fire she'd help us."

"But we didn't," Kyle said, confused.

"Yeah, but Shelley doesn't have to know that."

"Dude, if she finds out you've lied to her she'll disembowel you."

I shrugged. "I'm not scared of Shelley."

The others looked at me with disbelief. I think it was the quaver in my voice that gave me away.

"Look, are we doing this, or not?" I asked impatiently.

"I guess we don't have a choice," Kenny said. "Nobody else has got any ideas. And anyway, it's your funeral."

"It'll make a change from yours," I shot back.

We left the pond and headed for Shakey's, where we knew Shelley would be working her usual Saturday shift, and I gotta admit, I was relieved to be carrying our plan out there rather than at home. She'd be less likely to punch me, for one thing.

We wandered into a half empty Shakey's and I soon spotted my adorable sister. She was sitting in a booth with her best (only) friends Gail and Lucy. An unused mop and bucket leaned against a nearby table. I plucked up all the courage I had, swallowed hard and approached the booth.

"Shelley, can I talk to you for a second?"

She glared at me. "Get lost, turd! I'm working!"

"No you're not, you're on a break!"

I took a step back as Shelley's glare turned murderous. Gail and Lucy giggled as they looked me up and down.

"Please Shelley, I need your help." I cast my eyes downwards. The next part was going to hurt me badly, I knew it. "I'll do anything you want."

Shelley's eyes lit up. "Anything?"

I could've tried crying and appealing to Shelley's better nature but the truth is, she doesn't have one. What she does have, though, is a heart made of granite and a soul blacker than my hair. I've learnt the hard way that the only way to get her on-side is complete and utter surrender.

Shelley's mouth curved into a malicious smile as she considered my offer. Gail and Lucy giggled moronically again. "Alright then, turd. What's the problem?"

I explained about Trent, casually leaving out the part about us not telling Miss Claridge the truth.

"Why would this Trent turd come after you again?" Shelley asked when I'd finished. "It was his fault Miss Claridge got hurt again, wasn't it?"

I shuffled my feet anxiously. "Uh, not exactly."

Shelley shook her head. "Oh my God, you are such a stupid turd. Didn't you learn anything from last time?"

"Yeah. I learnt five years goes by way too fast."

She kicked me hard on the leg and I staggered, grabbing onto the table for support.

"Ow! Goddamit Shelley!"

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry," I mumbled, not meaning a word of it.

"Okay Stan, this is the deal. If you want my help, you gotta get down on your knees and beg me." She grinned at her friends.

"What?!"

"Get on your knees turd!"

I looked around. Shakey's was starting to fill up a little. I recognised a few people from school who would definitely never let me live this down.

"Uh, Shelley, how about I do it at home instead?"

"No turd! Do it now!"

Shelley's shout made everyone turn around and stare at us curiously. I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and knelt. As I did so, my right knee hit something red and sticky that I hoped was only ketchup. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the diner upon me.

"Please Shelley, I'm begging you," I murmured. "Help me."

"Say it like you mean it, turd!" she roared.

Tears of humiliation welled in my eyes. "Please Shelley. Please help me, I'm begging you."

Shelley sat back in her seat, clearly enjoying her little power-trip. She smiled malevolently at me. "No."

"What!" I stared at her, horrified. "But you said – "

"Too bad, Stan. You haven't learnt anything from five years ago, have you? It's time you faced up to what you've done." She stood up and edged out of the booth and kicked me out of the way.

"Shelley, no!" I made a desperate grab at her ankle as she walked past me. "Please! Trent'll kill me! Do you hear me? He will kill me!"

She shrugged. "Not my problem, turd."

She grabbed her mop and bucket and headed toward the kitchen.

"I'll tell mom and dad you've been smoking weed in the house!" I shouted. The last act of a desperate man.

Shelley stopped; half turned and grinned at me. "Like they'd believe you."

Which is true. Despite a string of unsuitable boyfriends and the sort of grades that would give most parents nightmares, Shelley has always been Little Miss Perfect in my parents' eyes. It's still the same today.

She turned and marched off. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the greasy ceiling, wondering what the hell we were going to do. We'd had one plan, and it had failed miserably. I sighed and shut my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them again, the view was obscured by my friends.

"That went well," Kenny said sarcastically.

"Shut up!"

"Get up, asshole!" Cartman snapped.

"What's the point?" I asked, incensed. "You know we're screwed, right?"

"We'll think of something," Kyle said encouragingly. "Look, just get up, will you? You're getting ketchup in your hair." He offered me his hand.

I took it reluctantly and got to my feet, touching the mess caked under my hat, although I knew that if Trent caught up with us, having ketchup in my hair would be the least of my worries.

We headed for the exit. The noise level in the diner had risen again now that the fun was over.

"We just need a plan B, that's all," Cartman was saying. His brows were furrowed in thought.

I sighed again as we wandered aimlessly along the sidewalk. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was gonna be one of the longest days of my life.

**Okay, I know this is annoying, but Stan's story has gotten so long I'm gonna have to split it across two chapters. But please review anyway!**

**Chapter 17 up soon…**


	17. Chapter 17

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Many thanks to all readers/reviewers – here's the second part of Stan's flashback.**

**I don't own South Park.**

**Chapter 17**

After about 20 minutes of wandering around South Park, we decided to head for Kenny's house in the hope that Trent wouldn't bother looking for us there. We only ever went to Kenny's place as a last resort, but this definitely felt like a last resort kinda situation.

We sat round the table in the dirty kitchen while Kenny hunted in vain for some food. Nearly 10 minutes later he gave up and dumped a pack of ricecrackers on the table.

"Sorry guys, this is all I could find," he said.

"Its okay, Ken," Kyle said.

Cartman looked disdainfully at the meagre offering in front of us and started humming 'In The Ghetto'.

Kenny had more success with our drinks. He found a half full bottle of Coke in the fridge which he poured into four chipped mugs, before adding a generous amount of his dad's whiskey, which we all accepted gratefully. Even Kyle, a devout non-drinker, didn't complain. We sat in silence for a while, eating dry ricecrackers and supping our drinks.

"We gotta get away from here," Kenny said suddenly.

"Guys, we are not running away," I said firmly. "There's gotta be another solution."

"Yeah? Like what?"

I thought for a moment, but came up empty handed. "I don't know!"

"Exactly."

"Where are we supposed to go then, smartass?"

"I don't know!" Kenny shouted, his frustration boiling over. "Anywhere away from Trent fucking Boyette'll do me!"

"Yeah, let's run away, cause that'll solve everything!" I shouted back.

Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the earlier humiliation at Shakey's, I don't know, but a sudden rage built up inside me. I jumped to my feet, almost knocking my chair over. Sensing the threat, Kenny stood up as well.

"Guys come on," Kyle said as Kenny and I stared each other down. "Putting each other in hospital isn't going to help. Sit down."

Kenny and I stared daggers at each other, neither of us wanting to be the first to give in. After a few moments the red mist that had descended so quickly began to lift and we both sat down.

"Kenny's right you know, Stan," Cartman said, cutting me off as I tried to interrupt. "We've gotta get outta here. Luckily for you guys, I know just the place to go." He paused dramatically, and then said: "Mexico."

We all stared at him.

"Why the hell would we wanna go there?" Kenny asked irritably.

"Ah Kenny, you'd love it there!" Cartman said enthusiastically. "Mexico is full of poor people like you! You'd feel right at home in no time!"

"Dude, we are not going to Mexico," I said adamantly as Kenny glared at him.

"Why not?" Cartman asked. "Of course it'll be difficult at first, I get that. Kahl will have to sell his ass on the streets for a few months, maybe longer, but it'll be worth it in the end."

"Dude, weak!" Kenny cried.

Kyle shot Cartman a death look. "Why don't you sell yours, fatboy? You've got way more of an ass than me!"

Cartman sighed deeply. "People will pay more for Jewish ass, Kahl. Don't you know anything? It's simple economics."

I slammed my fist down on the table just as Kyle started to retort, making the others jump. I wanted to change the direction of the conversation, which was getting crazy, even by our standards.

"Look, I'll do a deal with you," I said trying to keep my voice level. "I'll agree to run away, if that's what the rest of you want to do, but we are not going to Mexico, and nobody is selling their ass! Got it!"

I addressed the last part to Cartman, who pouted sullenly.

"Good." I took a deep breath before continuing. "If we're gonna do this, we should do it today, before anybody can stop us. Agreed?" The others nodded. "All right, let's go and get our stuff together. We'll meet in, say, half an hour at the bus station?"

Kenny looked down at himself. "I can meet you sooner than that. I'm done. None of my crap is worth taking."

"What about your porn stash?" Cartman asked hopefully.

"We only need _essential_ items, Cartman!" Kyle snapped. "Porn is not essential!"

"Maybe not for you, gaywad!"

"Guys! Guys!" I said loudly, before they could start another argument. "We need to go."

We left Kenny's and walked up the street past beggars, burnt out cars and junkies. We turned the corner at the top of the street, and who should we walk straight into? Yeah, you guessed it.

Trent Boyette.

I don't know who was more surprised, us or him. For a moment we stared at each other, then Trent's face took on its usual scowl, and we knew it was time to run.

We turned and took off as though we'd been launched by NASA. We ran down every little alley and side street we knew, but we couldn't shake off Trent. Every time we turned around he was there, bearing down on us.

I still don't know to this day why we ended up at the elementary school. Maybe it was fate that we ended up back where this whole thing began. Or maybe we just ran out of ideas.

We must've lost Trent briefly at some point because when I checked behind us, he was no longer there. We decided to press home our advantage and ran up the path. We barrelled through the front doors like they weren't there and ran up the hallway past our old lockers and classrooms, Cartman leading the way.

"Where are we going?" Kyle asked.

"Straight out through the fire exit," Cartman panted. "We can jump the playing field fence and head for the wood."

Which would've been fine, except for one small problem: the fire door was shut with a length of chain tightly wrapped around the bars. Cartman swore as we skidded to a stop and tried to work it free, getting more and more agitated with the amount of time it was taking. I decided not to make things worse by telling him I would rather gnaw my own arm off than be chased around a dense deserted wood by a homicidal Trent. There are just too many places to hide four bodies, for a start.

"Yes!" Cartman yelled in triumph as he wrenched the last bit of the chain free.

"Oh no," Kenny said quietly.

I took a look at his horrified face and then turned in the direction he was looking, even though I knew what was wrong. A very pissed off Trent Boyette stood just inside the hallway. Sweat dripped down his acne covered face as he walked towards us.

Cartman shoved the fire door, but it wouldn't budge. Then he threw his full weight against it, but it still wouldn't move. Then we all slammed against it, but it was stuck fast.

"Goddamit!" Cartman shouted.

We turned to face the advancing Trent, bunching together for added protection.

He smiled nastily at us. "So this is what its come to."

"We are really, really sorry Trent!" I stuttered. Yeah, like that was gonna help.

"Not sorry enough!" Trent shouted. "I've spent ten years in juvie because of you guys."

"Look, Trent – dude – we could've told the truth," Cartman said. "It's just…we didn't want to."

I kicked him on the ankle. "We'll talk to Miss Claridge! We'll tell her everything, we swear!"

"Do you really think that matters now?" Trent yelled. "Its not going to make any difference!" He pulled out his switchblade and flipped it open. "All I want is my revenge."

We all recoiled from him. Cartman grabbed the only weapon we had – the chain – and flexed it.

"Don't come any closer! Stay back now!" he said in a strange high pitched voice that made him sound crazier than Trent.

Trent stopped and smiled. "What are you gonna do with that?" Cartman shook his head dumbly. "I thought so."

He walked towards us again. At that exact moment, Miss Claridge appeared from around the corner. She went straight past us, seemingly completely oblivious to the life of death situation happening around her.

Cartman, his eyes fixed on Trent, swung a chain like a lasso and threw it at him. Unfortunately, it missed its target by several inches and instead wrapped itself around the top of Miss Claridge's chair. Still oblivious, she carried on down the corridor, and, as the chain stretched to its full length, she started pulling Cartman along behind her. I gotta tell ya, that was kinda funny – he looked like a dodgy waterskier. But I digress.

In a bid to stop this slow motion forward, uh, motion - and retrieve our only weapon - Cartman leaned back, using all his weight, and twisted on his heels. All this did, though, was pull Miss Claridge round in a circle. Naturally, she started to pull against him, dragging him around behind her. It was like the strangest square dance you'll never see.

Cartman reeled in a little of the chain and flipped it upward. It came away from the top of the chair, and the action sent Miss Claridge spinning away into a classroom.

The Chem lab, to be exact.

I don't think I need to tell you what happened next – but I will anyway. She shot straight across the lab and smashed into a cabinet full of chemicals, which broke over her chair, as well as each other. Sparks flew as they invaded the chair's electrics. Now, I didn't pay much attention in Chemistry, but even I knew that sparks and certain chemicals are a bad idea. And I was right.

There was a loud whoosh of flames from the chair that started to spread quickly around the lab. Even the desks and chairs were set alight. Well it's not our fault that everything in South Park Elementary was so goddamn flammable, is it?

Thick, acrid smoke poured into the hallway, making us cough and splutter.

"We gotta get outta here!" Kyle croaked.

"Yeah. One second," I managed. There was something I wanted to do first.

I grabbed a fire extinguisher from nearby and, ignoring my friends' cries, ran into the burning classroom, using my jacket to cover my face. Dodging the flames, I ran to Miss Claridge and doused her until she was out. I threw the extinguisher aside and grabbed the chair, pulling with all my might to try and move her, but it was just too heavy. By this time, my eyes were streaming and my mouth tasted like I'd been eating hot ashes. I knew I had to leave, or I'd die in there. I rasped a quick apology and headed for the door.

Kyle grabbed me as I staggered into the hallway. "What the fuck was that, Stan?"

"I couldn't leave her like that, I couldn't…" Tears ran down my face that I convinced myself were from the smoke.

"Come on, let's get out of here!" Cartman shouted. Trent was already running for the door.

We half ran, half staggered after him, the flames licking behind us. We burst out into the bright sunshine and breathed in the gorgeous fresh air. I could hear sirens getting closer. Still coughing, we made our way to the crowd that had formed and stood, watching our old school burn to the ground.

And, well, you know the rest.

**Okay, so that's Stan's story (finally) over. For the final chapter, the story'll be back in the third person. If you enjoyed Stan's story, please review, if you didn't…please review anyway.**

**Final *sob* chapter up soon…**


	18. Chapter 18

**Revenge Àu Tròis**

**Okay, so this is it, the final chapter. ****It's been a long road, but we got here eventually. Oh, I should warn you, there is a death - but you'll have to read on to find out who meets their maker…**

**I don't own South Park, just this fic.**

**Chapter 18**

Everyone looked at Stan when he finished speaking. He lowered his eyes and shrugged. "Well, that's what happened."

Wendy shook her head. "I can't believe you've been lying all this time. We agreed – no secrets, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"What did you think I'd do? Call the cops?"

"Of course not!" Stan exclaimed. "I thought it was all in the past. I didn't think Trent would…"

His voice trailed off as he looked at his nemesis, who glared at him.

"Poor Miss Claridge," Wendy said sadly. "You know she can't even beep once for yes and twice for no any more."

Stan hung his head guiltily.

"'Poor Miss Claridge'?" Trent mimicked sarcastically. "What about poor me? I'm the one who's spent fifteen years inside for stuff I didn't do!"

"I would have some sympathy for you Trent, if you hadn't ruined my fucking wedding day!" Wendy shouted at him.

Stan shut his eyes in disbelief. _Oh yeah, great plan, Wendy. Lets make him angrier and see what happens._ Just for a moment, he thought he heard something in the distance. Sirens? He shook his head. With the way their luck had been running the last couple of days, it was highly unlikely.

Trent grabbed the machete and strode over to Wendy. She stared at him defiantly.

Stan's eyes snapped open. He had definitely heard something that time. He looked at Cartman, who gazed back wonderingly and mouthed: "Sirens?" Gregory turned his head slightly towards the door.

Trent grabbed Wendy by the hair and pulled her head back. "You have no idea what my life has been like, you stuck up bitch!"

"So you've had a hard life! Boo hoo! So have millions of other people!" Wendy snapped contemptuously.

Trent placed the sharp blade against her throat. Stan gave a shout of horror and struggled uselessly against his bonds. He could hear the wail of sirens getting closer. _Come on, come on…_

"I don't think you want to do that, Trent," Gregory warned.

"Eric, what's happening?" Butters asked, trying in vain to twist his neck around the post. "Can anyone else hear sirens?"

"Sirens?" Trent asked, alarmed. He stood up and let go of Wendy, who exhaled deeply. "No! This can't be happening!"

"Uh-oh! You've been busted!" Cartman taunted.

"Trent, listen to me," Gregory urged. "I can get you out of this, but you need to untie me right now!"

For the first time, Stan saw indecision in Trent's eyes and was reminded of how young he was. All the time he had seemed like the guy in control, but really, he was exactly the same as them – just trying to survive.

Police cars skidded to a halt outside, filling the warehouse with red and blue lights. They could hear people rushing around, all speaking loudly.

"Trent Boyette! Gregory Edgerley-Finn!" A gruff sounding man spoke suddenly through a loudhailer. Trent jumped at the sound of his name. "Put your weapons down and come outside with your hands up. If you refuse to co-operate, we will send in the SWAT team. You have thirty seconds to comply."

Trent's face drained of all colour as the reality of the situation began to hit home. Stan noticed his hands were shaking.

"Do what they're telling you, Trent," he said. "There's nothing else you can do."

"But I'll go back to prison," Trent said in a scared voice.

"Yeah, but maybe you can do a deal with them or something," Stan suggested. "Maybe if you testify against that asshole," he nodded at Gregory, "you might get a reduced sentence."

"No!" Trent said, shaking his head vigorously. "I can't go back to prison. I won't go back!"

He picked up his rifle and walked to the door as though in a trance. He opened the door and stepped outside.

"Trent, no!" Stan yelled helplessly after him.

Time seemed to stand still inside the warehouse as Trent was ordered several times to drop his weapon. Stan estimated that he managed to get off two shots before the inevitable hail of bullets. Seconds felt like hours as the shots rang out, and then almost as quickly as they had started, they stopped. There was a moment of silence, then a voice shouted: "Suspect down! Suspect is down!"

The next thing they knew, the door had been kicked clean off its hinges and the warehouse was filled with people dressed in black combats, helmets and Kevlar vests, who set to work untying them once they'd established there was no other threat. Stan's legs nearly gave way underneath him when he stood up; such was the weight of relief. Gregory was handcuffed and marched outside. The other hostages followed, all feeling a little dazed.

Once they were outside, Stan and Wendy fell into each others' arms, Kyle burst into tears and Cartman and Butters stood staring into space. Stan, his chin resting on Wendy's head, watched as two black body bags were loaded into the waiting ambulance. Nearby, caught in the light of various sets of headlights, what seemed like an ocean of blood stained the sidewalk. Stan shut his eyes and buried his face in Wendy's hair.

The rest of the night was a blur. The police asked endless questions, trying to get to the bottom of what had happened. Two officers were dispatched to find Christophe, while Gregory sat stony faced in the back of a panda car.

Eventually, some time after midnight, everybody piled into the police cars and with the ambulance leading the way, the procession left South Park, sirens blaring. Stan, Kyle and Wendy were in one car, Cartman and Butters in another. During the journey back to Denver, Stan finally got to ask the question that had been bothering him all night.

"How did you guys even find us?"

The cop in the passenger seat turned and smiled at him. "You've got your lil' lady to thank for that. Without her quick thinking we'd never have found you."

Stan looked at Wendy. "Huh?"

She looked embarrassed. "I didn't know what had happened to you and I was frantic. Gregory was all over me like a rash. By chance I heard the voicemail you left on his phone, but I thought no-one would believe me if I told them. I knew that the only way to find you was through him, so…I let him take me hostage."

Stan blinked. "You did what?"

"I knew that pompous asshole wouldn't be able to resist showing me how clever he'd been," Wendy replied. "So I let him kidnap me. I'd already hidden my cellphone in my pocket, and on the way here, I called Bebe." Suddenly remembering, she took her phone out of her pocket and switched it off. "She knew the plan, so I knew she'd be listening. I managed to get Gregory to tell me where we were going, so all I had to do after that was wait. I knew that the cops could track my phone signal, even if they didn't have an exact location."

"So that's why you got me to tell you about Miss Claridge!" Stan said, grinning. "Damn babe, remind me not to piss you off!"

Wendy snuggled up to him and kissed him gently.

"Oh, come on Stan, you should know by now," she whispered, her breath tickling his cheek. "Don't fuck with Wendy Testaburger!"

*

It was a happy, joyful scene, he had to admit. Unfortunately, he'd never really done happy and joyful. He stared at the ecstatic couple standing on the steps of the registry office, and all he felt was a searing hatred.

He gazed at the bride and fantasised about what he might like to do to her. Wendy fucking Testaburger. Well, Wendy fucking Marsh now. He'd found out about her scheme when they'd broken out. The bitch had stitched him right up. He flushed red with anger, and forced himself to look away. No, now was not the time.

As he continued to watch, the wedding party left and began to move away down the street, all of them in the mood for a massive celebration. None of them noticed the white van parked across the road, or the two men sitting inside it. And why would they?

"Look, zey are leaving!" his friend exclaimed. "We need to act now, while we still 'ave a chance!"

He sighed deeply. It wasn't easy working with an idiot.

"Really Christophe, you have no sense of occasion, do you?" he said witheringly. "Its their wedding day, let them celebrate. Their time will come."

"But Gregory, the iron, she is still warm! We should strike now!"

"As I keep explaining to you, we are two of America's most wanted men!" Gregory said patiently. "We've got all the major law enforcement agencies looking for us. I don't think that now is quite the time for a revenge attack, do you? No, we need to get out of the country for a while."

"So why did you bring us 'ere?" Christophe asked, confused.

Gregory chuckled. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just a masochist." He gunned the engine. "Look Chris, I understand how you feel. I have a score to settle, too." He had one last look at Wendy, who was just visible in the wing mirror. "But that's one for the future."

Christophe, who had been gazing sulkily out of the window, looked at him, his hope renewed. "So we will be back?"

Gregory drove the van out into the traffic. "Oh yes," he said, his face full of menace. "I can't promise you when, but I promise you this…we'll be back!"

**Well that's the end! Many thanks to all reviewers…there are simply too many of you to name, but I know who you are! I hope you enjoyed it and hopefully, I'll have another story up soon!**


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